What Am I Doing Here, Lord?

When I was first here [Ghana, 2005], it took me several days to realize what was happening and what great honor the people were showing me. Pastor after pastor would come to the house to sit with me and talk. I ministered to so many, sharing what I know and encouraging them. Church members started filing in; I listened and shared my heart as best I could.

It is really true that you do not know how much you have stored away until there is a draw on the supply. I have made so many wonderful friends here. 

Our visit up North to Bolgatanga was quite the experience. As it turned out, I really had little to do with the crusade itself and did not participate in the healing lines as planned. My afternoons were involved in Children’s Ministry and my evenings were spent observing the healing crusade as the kids would gather around me. They would simply stand in front of me and look at me, at first a few and then the few would become a crowd. We would find a spot where we could settle down and just spend time together. Kids here just so enjoy sitting near me; they seem to be so comforted and strengthened if I just smile at them or touch their lovely faces as we speak. How unusual it is to me.

The first day of the crusade, Pastor Prosper was expecting perhaps 200 kids for the afternoon children's program; over 1000 came. More than 2000 showed up the second day! It was an incredible sight--children just kept coming and coming. Prosper had asked me to share with his staff how our children's ministry at the Village of Faith operates; we had a couple of opportunities to practice what I had shared with them before the crusade. After an initial barrage of obstacles we just took off with it and had glorious fun with the kids. And the kids had so much fun!!! Getting them to laugh and be silly was a challenge at first, but once the first few caught on, it got real easy. Kids are created to laugh and to enjoy Life; we must always endeavor to keep life from stifling them.

Children here are treated so differently than in the US. When I visited the schools in Tema, it was strikingly obvious that they are not taught to reason or consider options when asked questions; all of the questions they are asked are Yes or No questions or ones that require a rote response.

I would ask them to tell me who could sing louder, boys or girls, and there would be no response. It puzzled me so much that I then asked the girls, “Girls! Can you sing louder than the boys?”

“YES!” they shouted.

I realized that I had to ask questions the way they had been trained to answer. To me, simple things, but to them, problems they did not know how to solve. 

At the Children’s Program in Bolga, I was thankful that I had experienced this in Tema. It was easier to get the kids to participate. Raising my hands and jumping up and down, encouraging them to do the same, seemed to shock them but slowly I would get one or two here and there to follow me and soon most of the kids were laughing and just having fun.

Fun is a foreign concept here. Children do not play, do not have toys, do not really socialize with each other, and have little interaction with the adults. My prayer is that the teachers and pastors with whom I have had contact will grab hold of new ideas and start recognizing the value and the worth of their children, and start cultivating their minds.

One afternoon, a young girl of about 13 came to me and said, “Madam, we need you.” I assumed she meant that some children needed me and went along. She took me behind the platform that was in place for the evening services, and there, lined up in a row, she had brought about 10 women with afflictions that overwhelmed my senses.

I looked at them—one sitting in a chair, her leg rigidly extended; I could not tell if she had no knee joint or if the joint had fused somehow. Another with palsy so bad that there was no muscle in her arms or legs; she just sat in her chair, staring and trembling uncontrollably. A blind lady; a woman with a baby in her arms, imploring me with great desperation about her child; another with pain in her neck, back, and legs that was so severe, she simply stood and shook violently, her eyes vacant with the pain. Except for the mom holding out her child to me and crying out for help, they were all silent in resignation to the pain and to their hopelessness, blankly staring at nothing in front of them.

It was unbelievable. These were people I read about in T. L. Osborn’s books; I had never seen such things. I looked at them and felt utterly inadequate.

Dear Father, I pray for kids with runny noses and tummy aches. What am I doing here?

But what could I do? I simply made the decision to turn off what I was seeing and to start laying my hands on them and to pray. All I could do was ask the Lord to grant them the cries of their hearts—I could not understand the language and I know they did not understand me, but I also knew that there is no language barrier between the Spirit of God and the spirit of this world.

At the end of the line, I looked back. Nothing seemed to have changed except the level of despondency and I refused to consider it. I encouraged the ladies as best I could to attend the evening meeting and to continue believing God for the miracle they had asked for, and told them I would make arrangements for them to be seated in an area safe from the crowds, hoping they would understand me. Pastor Paul later took care of that and I went back to my hotel refusing to think about the day. I just couldn’t. It would have crushed me. I had to leave it to the Spirit to do His job; I had done mine. When we are all safely Home with our Lord, I am sure I will see those ladies with their answered cries for help; for this lifetime, I must be content to live by faith, knowing I did all I knew to do.

Next day, during the afternoon children's program, there was a commotion to my left, kids jumping back and making a clearing. I went over to see what it was and on the ground was a young girl, perhpas 12 or so, having a violent seizure. As I caught sight of her and began to walk toward her, in my spirit I heard the Lord speak, "NOW! HERE IT IS!"

From that moment, I moved in a different realm. I was aware of what I was doing but of nothing else as I laid my hands on the girl and commanded the demon to come out and let her go. Some of my teammates were drawn to the commotion by this time and prayed alongside me, and after just a short time the girl was suddenly quiet—a bit dazed, but fine. Glory to God!!!

I simply went back to my chair to wait for my part in the program and she went back to hers to continue enjoying the afternoon.

That evening, after the healing line had begun to break up, Pastor George came to me and told me that a woman was crying out that if a white woman would pray for her, she would be okay. So I went with him to a building perhaps 300 feet away from the platform where a few people had been brought for deliverance. Those demons are wicked things; these people were in pure torment.

Pastor George brought me to a woman with an interpreter alongside (the language in Bolga is different from the one in Tema) who told me that she said she had bugs in her head bothering her. The woman was slapping her head and had such a wild look in her eyes; she was so confused and distraught.

Well, I tapped her head to make her happy because she insisted that I do so, but I knew there were no bugs. She ranted about wanting to go to Europe with me, spend time having meals with me, all sorts of irrational bunny trails, and so I told the interpreter to tell her to be quiet, to just answer my questions.

As I had approached her, my spirit caught the impression—not the sight or the vision—that something was “popping” in and out of her body. It was evident by the peculiar way her body would jerk about and how she kept slapping her head. But when I spoke to her through the interpreter, it was also evident that I was talking with an emotional and somewhat irrational woman.

I did not “feel” that I had proper contact with the real trouble yet. I told the interpreter to ask her if she went to witch doctors; her expression changed just the littlest bit as she looked at me and said no. I did not catch it then but later realized that this was the moment that the demon realized he was found out. The next question did it in—do you have anything at home or on you that a witch doctor gave you?

The interpreter did not have to tell me what she said—her face began to look away from mine, her eyes began to wander around, and she said she was not sure, she would have to check.

I was told later that I looked her right in her eyes and said, "It's over now; you're mine!" I had to laugh out loud because it sure sounds like something I would say. 

As I reached out and put my hand on her head to tell that demon to leave her, she fell backwards, taking me with her; she was screaming and throwing my hand away from her, slapping her head frantically and shouting at me. The interpreter said that she was screaming, “Stop praying! They rise up when you pray!”

At that point, truly the Spirit of God took over, for I had no time for the interpreter after that nor did I have time to think about what to do; I just moved in the Spirit. I thank the Lord that it was so; had I taken in the scene and thought about what to do, fear would certainly have taken hold of me.

I grabbed her wrists and told her very firmly to stop pushing them back in, to let them out. Then I commanded the demon to come out in Jesus’ Name and a short wrestling match ensued! She writhed on the ground, yelling and screaming for a short time (it seemed like forever but probably was only a few seconds), and then suddenly she was still and her body went limp.

It was like looking at a sleeping baby; her face was so peaceful and her body so relaxed. She was utterly beautiful as she lay there in Father’s arms.

Then suddenly she opened her eyes, looked straight into mine, and smiled. Her eyes were bright and clear and her smile was wonderful. We both laughed and all I could say to her was that she was so beautiful. She truly was so utterly beautiful!

It was amazing; it was fun, pure fun, and such joy. She was completely delivered.

The woman got up rejoicing and the interpreter told she wanted to testify on the platform. I told her to go and off she went. Not five minutes later, she was back with a string of people following her.  She never made it to the platform--she had gone praising the Lord for what He has done and collected a bunch of others needing prayer, brought them back to where she had been delivered, and then started laying her hands on them herself. That quickly she was out preaching the gospel and healing all who were oppressed of the devil!!!

So, that is probably the most “spectacular” event of my visit. Most of it has been filled with wonderful times of fellowship with people, encouraging, teaching, praying, and sharing God’s wonderful kindness. I have seen much here that requires much prayer, and I understand that my purpose here is to bring together those who can help with those who need it.

Poverty here looks a lot like the ads we see on TV asking us to feed the hungry but it is not contained to a small screen. Imagine hundreds of square miles of dry, dead land filled with people who have no food, no water at times, little rags for clothes, and no hope. And you can’t change the channel when you can’t look any more. There is no end to it; the faces have voices imploring you to help.

It seems to me that the most important thing to do here is to educate the people, to teach them to think, to reason, to be creative. We need to bring them hope in the form of food and clothing, farming and agricultural aid, medical care, and mostly a kind touch to let them know that they are valuable to us. Somehow my heart knows that this is simply the first visit I am making here; the relationships the Lord has established for me here are forever.

So, enough of this for today. Be most thankful and grateful for your running water, for McDonald’s, for shoes on your feet and clothes on your body. Bless your food and thank your Father for providing for you. I have spent a few days here with little or no food, a couple with no water. I have walked hours in the merciless sun on pure dust “roads” and wondered what it felt like to be clean again.

The harmattan, a wind that blows off the Sahara Desert, picked iself up for a few days in Bolga--it carries fine dust from the Sahara and as it picks up strength in Bolga the utter dryness of the land becomes windswept and the air is filled with dust and sand. It covers your whole body; you have to brush yourself off frequently. It gets up your nose and into your lungs, in your eyes and clothes. The air is brown with it and visibility is occasionally next-to-nothing. We are a blessed people in the U.S.

Smiles