Right Place, Right Time

If you want to minister to others but don't know where to start, just ask the Lord to provide opportunities and keep your eyes and ears open.


Over the years, I've picked up several people walking down the road, some becoming lifelong friends and others I've been able to lead to Christ.


More recently, I've been in some extreme circumstances just by being in the right place at the right time. Here are three:


Layla Snow


I'd stopped at the local Piggly Wiggly one day when I noticed the commotion between a local off-duty officer and a young female driver in the parking lot. She was under the influence of some pretty strong sedatives and could barely speak. He had taken her keys and would not let her drive home. She couldn't find anyone to pick her up and he didn't have many options left but to call and have a patrol car pick her up. Since she wasn't driving at the time he found her, he didn't want to have her arrested but she was obviously in no condition to drive.


After showing the officer my clergy card, I offered to give her a ride home. He agreed and she got in my car, thanking me profusely. The minute I started the car, she fell sound asleep. I drove around for thirty minutes, trying unsuccessfully to wake her up enough to get an address. It wasn't until her phone started ringing incessantly that I decided to open her purse to see if the caller could give me an home address. I didn't reach the caller in time but I did find an ID with her name and address. I was able to get a little more response by calling her by name, and within five minutes we'd arrived at her home.


I was unsure if the gentleman who greeted me was her boyfriend, husband, or brother. He seemed perplexed, which confused me because I was certain this wasn't the first time she'd arrived home in this state. I offered encouragement, support, and my phone number. I explained that once upon a time that was me and I was living proof that there is hope for Layla.  It seemed my words fell on deaf ears.


I later found out that Layla was a "frequent flyer" (term used by police for those arrested and/or jailed often). I haven't seen her since but I have continued to pray for her, hoping that my limited interaction with her planted a seed of hope for her and her family.


Zoey Black


Zoey's story is probably the most bizarre one I've ever shared. We were pulling up to a red light when we saw the little white car approach the light on our left. It sputtered and stalled, and this extremely skeletal young woman with very few clothes on got out of the driver's seat with a tiny screwdriver in hand.


She then crawled under her car and it was obvious that she was under the influence of something. The car then started moving, running her over as she lay on the concrete.


I jumped out of my car and ran to her. Another lady reached her at the same time. As the men stood back, calling for help and controlling the traffic, we tried to comfort her and pray. 


When it became questionable whether or not she would make it, I immediately began a prayer of salvation. The lady next to me was a Christian and provided the Amen chorus in the background. As Zoey began repeating a basic Sinner's Prayer, calling on the Lord to save her, something dark and sinister took over and began screaming at me. I was unwilling to stop, knowing the works of the devil are powerless in the presence of the Holy Spirit.


My compadre wasn't so confident.


"Stop! Stop!" she yelled. "Shhh!" she comforted the beast within our victim. "It's okay. Just rest."


Later I thought of how I should've handled that, how I should've insisted on continuing. But at the time, all I could think was that if the Christian next to me didn't understand deliverance, how could I expect the other bystanders to as well?


Surprisingly enough, when we got to the hospital the next day to visit Zoey, she'd been discharged.


Again, all I could do was pray that I planted a seed and that the Lord would send someone else to her to complete her prayer of salvation.


Jack Grayson

Jack’s tale is one I don’t share often. Many people don’t believe spiritual warfare exists or they don’t want to acknowledge its presence in today’s society. My experience with Jack leaves little doubt.

We were visiting a church member in the E.R. She’d sprained her ankle in the E.R. and we were in the waiting room waiting for her to return from the X-Ray lab when Jack came barreling through, two uniformed guards and three nurses quickly following behind.

“I’m an angel. I’m Michael, the archangel,” he proclaimed loudly.

I looked at my husband.

“Leave it alone,” he warned. He knew the look in my eyes.

“He’s just a baby,” I protested. It was true. He couldn’t have been more than twenty.

Just then, they called us back to our friend’s room. I reluctantly left the waiting room and tried to make small talk, my mind still on the young man and his need for prayer.

Finally, when I could stand it no more, I returned to the waiting to check on him.

“How’s the angel boy?” I asked the triage nurse, knowing HIPAA laws prohibited her from actually tell me anything.

“He’s okay,” I heard a timid voice respond from the corner of the waiting room.

I walked over and introduced myself to the voice. She was Jack’s grandmother and things were far from okay. She pleaded with me to go pray with him.

I walked into the examination room with full armor on.

“You think losing your daughter was hard; you’ve never dealt with anything like me before.”

I know the shock was evident on my face, though I tried to act as if the words hadn’t affected me at all. (Weeks later, when separately the officer and the grandmother learned that I had indeed lost a child, they were equally dumbfounded.)

I stood my ground. I talked, I prayed, I commanded.

Every time we started to make progress, he would get so loud that nurses would come running.

Though I had resolved after Zoey not to let thrashing, hysterical spirits interfere with deliverance again, I had no choice but to halt the session when the nurses came rushing in the room with a sedative.

Fortunately, in this case, Jack’s grandmother stayed in touch with us and we were able to finish counseling with him once he went home. Through it all, his entire family was saved and set free from three generations of mental illness and abuse.

 

As incredible as these three experiences were, none will EVER compare to the stranger my oldest daughter Callie and I picked up fifteen years ago.

We were driving home from the grocery store when she noticed a man sitting in the ditch.

“Mom, stop! I think that man is blind.”

I saw the filthy man sitting in the ditch with a wooden cane and big sunglasses.

As with anyone I picked up, I had to quickly assess the situation. My daughter was only ten; I couldn’t put her in any danger.

“I’m not sure,” I hesitated, as I slowly drove past.

“Mom, you gotta help him,” she insisted.

I turned around in the parking lot of the convenience store and drove back.

“Do you need a ride?” I asked, as I jumped out of the van to help him up.

“Thank you,” he replied, as he climbed into my vehicle.

Callie later told me that she grabbed my cell phone and had 9-1-1 pushed on the keypad with her finger hovering over the SEND button the entire time, just in case.

I wasn’t worried about being in danger. I was too busy thinking about how dirty he was and how I’d just cleaned my van. Soon those concerns were forgotten.

“Can I take you to the Salvation Army?” I asked. What would I do if he didn’t have a destination?

“No, just bring me to Willow Glen.” The apartments he named were less than a half-mile away. I thought it was odd that he was going somewhere so close, but also relieved.

He began asking me questions.

“Do you believe in God?” Absolutely.

“Are you a Christian?” I sure am.

“Some people say I look like Jesus. What do you think?” Well, they say Jesus was a nondescript man; you couldn’t pick him out in a crowd. So, sure. You could.

He seemed so pleased with my answers.

By the time we reached the apartments, I was a little concerned for the man.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay? Can I bring you somewhere else?”

He assured me he was fine, and that we’d reached his destination. He turned to face both me and my daughter and for the first time, he removed his sunglasses. The brightest light I’d ever seen filled the entire van and the bluest eyes thanked us before getting out, leaving us trembling in our seats.

“I think that was an…an…angel,” one of us said. I’m still not sure which one of us uttered those words.

We only made it a quarter-mile down the road before we turned around and went back to the apartments to discover what we already knew. He’d vanished.

We talked about it over the years, knowing we’d experienced something special, but not realizing just how special until ten years later.

I’d picked up Todd Burpo’s book “Heaven is for Real” at the bookstore and was enjoying reading his young son Colton’s account of going to Heaven in the midst of a near-death experience. If there was any skepticism at all, it disappeared when Colton’s parents found a portrait a young Lithuanian girl named Akiane Kramarik painted of Jesus.

“That’s him,” Colton told his parents. They’d shown him hundreds of pictures of Jesus by this time. None had come close.

When I saw the picture, I nearly dropped the book.

“That’s him,” I whispered in disbelief. It was the man from the van years earlier.

Callie was in college at the time but came over for dinner later that week.

“Look,” I insisted, shoving the book at her as she walked through the door. I didn’t say anything else. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. I purposefully hadn’t told her about the book. I wanted to see her untainted reaction. It had been ten years. Maybe I was overreacting.

Her voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “That’s the man from the van.”   

I couldn’t believe it. Jesus was in my car. And He’d been pleased with me.

It just doesn’t get any better than that.