Recently, I was challenged to prayer walk my neighborhood.
It was almost surreal, as the last few times I had prayer walked were in Asia, around the bar districts where girls were forced into prostitution, up and down mountains where massive stone idols were set up for people to worship, even around a city in a closed, Muslim country, where you could literally feel the demonic oppression as you walked through the masses of people eager to find relief for their souls.
But prayer walk Northern Virginia?
True to form, I continue to be reminded that the God of the mission field is the same God who reigns back home, and the things I did on the Race are just as important to do back here.
So a- prayer- walking I went.
I meandered to the shopping center across the street, and stood looking at all the businesses there: restaurants, a carpet store, a vet, even (my favorite) a Starbucks.
"Jesus," I prayed, "please bring men and women into each of those businesses who love you and will use their job as a mission field- literally turn this shopping center over to Your glory."
Amen and done, right?
Later that night, my Dad and I went to go meet a man who was helping us sell my grandmother's house. You want to talk about emotional instability, well here it was. This was the house I was raised in, where I moved back later and learned what love really is- deep and unconditional and a little bit kooky. This was the woman who never let me out of her sight without reminding me to pray and trust Jesus, because He has everything under control.
As we sat with this man, my heart was hurting. Some new young family was probably going to move in to this house of spiritual warfare, this home that had seen knees on it from my grandmother and my mother, day after day, year after year.
As we left, we prayed for the people buying the house, then the real estate agent told us that he sold more houses on his knees than on his feet, as he shared a story of how he prayed every night with his daughter and gave us a glimpse into some of those answered prayers.
I realized in that moment that this is what the Christian life is: it's men and women who are radical. Not that they all have to abandon everything to go into the bush of Africa, never to be seen again- rather, they live their lives with quiet strength, interacting with the fallen world in a way that quietly screams there's a God in heaven and He loved us enough to die for us.
This man may never hold a distraught orphan or comfort a widow burying her child, but he is a warrior of the faith and is doing great things in the background. The church may not recognize him as a giant, but last night, I did, and was reminded that it's not about fame or fortune or even Africa, it's about being faithful to the Lord and bringing Him glory wherever you go: Africa or NOVA or real estate.
We're the body of Christ, and this is our mission: to heal the sick, to raise the dead, to cast out demons.
Let's go. :)
It was almost surreal, as the last few times I had prayer walked were in Asia, around the bar districts where girls were forced into prostitution, up and down mountains where massive stone idols were set up for people to worship, even around a city in a closed, Muslim country, where you could literally feel the demonic oppression as you walked through the masses of people eager to find relief for their souls.
But prayer walk Northern Virginia?
True to form, I continue to be reminded that the God of the mission field is the same God who reigns back home, and the things I did on the Race are just as important to do back here.
So a- prayer- walking I went.
I meandered to the shopping center across the street, and stood looking at all the businesses there: restaurants, a carpet store, a vet, even (my favorite) a Starbucks.
"Jesus," I prayed, "please bring men and women into each of those businesses who love you and will use their job as a mission field- literally turn this shopping center over to Your glory."
Amen and done, right?
Later that night, my Dad and I went to go meet a man who was helping us sell my grandmother's house. You want to talk about emotional instability, well here it was. This was the house I was raised in, where I moved back later and learned what love really is- deep and unconditional and a little bit kooky. This was the woman who never let me out of her sight without reminding me to pray and trust Jesus, because He has everything under control.
As we sat with this man, my heart was hurting. Some new young family was probably going to move in to this house of spiritual warfare, this home that had seen knees on it from my grandmother and my mother, day after day, year after year.
As we left, we prayed for the people buying the house, then the real estate agent told us that he sold more houses on his knees than on his feet, as he shared a story of how he prayed every night with his daughter and gave us a glimpse into some of those answered prayers.
I realized in that moment that this is what the Christian life is: it's men and women who are radical. Not that they all have to abandon everything to go into the bush of Africa, never to be seen again- rather, they live their lives with quiet strength, interacting with the fallen world in a way that quietly screams there's a God in heaven and He loved us enough to die for us.
This man may never hold a distraught orphan or comfort a widow burying her child, but he is a warrior of the faith and is doing great things in the background. The church may not recognize him as a giant, but last night, I did, and was reminded that it's not about fame or fortune or even Africa, it's about being faithful to the Lord and bringing Him glory wherever you go: Africa or NOVA or real estate.
We're the body of Christ, and this is our mission: to heal the sick, to raise the dead, to cast out demons.
Let's go. :)
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