“Father!”

“Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of good courage; be not affrighted, neither be thou dismayed: for Jehovah thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.” — Joshua 1:9 (ASV)

Okoyong was forest country between the Cross River and the Calabar River, a day's journey inland. Its people were farmers and hunters living in scattered clearings under their own chiefs, and for generations they had been in a long feud with the Efik of Calabar.

The customs that troubled Mary were real, and she described them herself. When a free person fell ill or died, a witch-doctor named those to blame, and they were chained and made to take the poison-bean ordeal, or have boiling oil poured on their hands. When a chief died, slaves and wives were killed to go with him. After careful questioning she later estimated that at least a hundred and fifty lives a year were taken at funerals near her, and as many again by the ordeal. Nobody can check her figures, but they explain why she went. And there was gin everywhere: work, fines and debts were paid in it, and babies were given it.

It took a year of visits before she could go. “I had often a lump in my throat,” she wrote, “and my courage repeatedly threatened to take wings and fly away, though nobody guessed it!” In June 1888 she reached a village called Ekenge. The chief, Edem, welcomed her, and people called her “Mother.” Friends in Creek Town told her nothing would ever change Okoyong except a consul and a gunboat. She smiled and kept packing.

She left on 4 August 1888 in pouring rain. One young man said to her, with a sob in his voice, “I will constantly pray for you, but you are courting death.” She took five children from her household. It was nearly dark when they landed, with four miles of forest still to walk. As she faced the trees, loud with night noises, fear swept over her. She wanted to turn and run. She tried to pray and couldn't even move her lips. She could only look up and say inside one word: “Father!”

It was enough.

The little procession that walked into Okoyong that night was not impressive: a boy of eleven with a box on his head, a boy of eight crying, a three-year-old crying louder, a girl of five sobbing, and Mary with a baby on her shoulders, pulling herself along by branches and singing nonsense songs to cheer them up.

Ekenge was silent. The chief's mother had died, and everyone had gone to the funeral, which might end in killing. The carriers refused to bring the loads up that night, so Mary went back alone through the dark forest, without boots, fell again and again, woke the paddlers, and had the loads in by midnight. Her feet were so cut that she couldn't wear boots for six weeks. Her first Sunday there, she said, was one of the saddest days she ever spent. She stayed.

Her first victory came at a price. A young slave was accused of sorcery after a woman's death, and the family decided he must die. Mary argued for him while guns and swords were waved in her face, and they agreed to spare his life. But he was still chained, starved, flogged and cut. A life had been saved, and the man had paid for it in his own body. Most of her victories in Okoyong would be like that: real, and only partial.

God told Joshua not to be afraid, which means Joshua was afraid. The reason given wasn't that Joshua was tough. It was “Jehovah thy God is with thee.” Mary walked into Okoyong afraid and stayed there, on and off afraid, for fifteen years. The fear didn't go. She just wasn't alone in it.

When you're too scared to pray properly, one word is a real prayer. Paul says the Spirit teaches us to cry “Abba, Father.” That's the most basic prayer there is.

One thing to do this week: next time you're anxious, a test, a conversation, a dark walk home, try Mary's one-word prayer: “Father.” Then take the next step anyway.