It was hot. Not the hottest, but definitely getting there. This was one of my last ministry days with Eklektos in the DR, the team I was staying with for the second half of the month. We were wandering around through this sprawling urban neighborhood handing out water filters through the local church.
I had done this ministry before, a few years ago. Maybe even in this same neighborhood. I couldn’t remember, exactly. Either way, I was rather comfortable with the process. You explain how to install the filter, you install the filter, you go through the gospel, ask about their relationship with Christ, pray, and repeat.
It’s not that systematic, but more or less that’s how it looks. Each house would vary about how well the person understood, or how receptive they were to the gospel, or any number of things.
Our team had split into two for the day to cover more ground. I was with Rick (the team leader and translator), Michelle, and Brittney. The pastor’s wife was directing us as well, but she was all over the place. We had been at it all morning, giving out several filters. But now it was after lunch and we were headed back out.
Throughout this afternoon I would meet several characters. The American named Roland walking down the street trying to sell his saw, the small incredibly naked toddler with bleach blonde hair, the woman from Spain who lived in a small house with 20 other people. But there’s one house in particular that will always stick out to me. And that’s the one with the old couple. The house with the man and his swollen feet.
We came to the house and sat on the little porch, having to walk behind the old man sitting in his wheel chair. He mostly just looked forward, not saying much. He had his feet soaking in a tub. And his feet were quite swollen. But more than that, they looked like they were in bad shape. Red and inflamed, scabbed up and huge. He himself didn’t look too much better. His wife was a stream of endless words. Words I didn’t understand with my pathetic Spanish. Rick launched into the presentation with her, having to fight to get the spiel in. Come to find out later, she already had a filter. It just wasn’t working because she wouldn’t clean it. Go figure.
All-in-all this house visit lasted nearly half an hour. During that time a small boy came in weeping, children ran back and forth, the man never moved, and the woman never quit talking. But throughout the whole process, I couldn’t stop staring at this man’s feet. These enormous, gross feet. At first it was that kind of moment when you can’t help but watch a car wreck happen, but then it became something else entirely. I wanted to see his feet healed. And I knew that God could do it through me. I felt it deep in my bones. I was certain.
I asked Michelle, who back home is a pretty excellent nurse, what she thought was going on. She thought it was a burn, or an infection. In the span of precious seconds when the woman wasn’t talking I asked Rick if he could find out what was wrong with the man. Apparently he had a stroke and part of his body went numb. Making him immobile, but then he had gotten a cut on his foot and it had spread. Meaning that this was one serious, nasty infection on this guy’s foot. I was unfazed.
The team was fairly frustrated with this house due to the woman and all of the ridiculous things she had done during the course of the visit. So when prayer came, it came fast and I had to interject to ask if I could pray for the man while they prayed for the family.
It was my time. Time for this man to believe in Jesus in a new way. For him to be healed and run around. To have his feet shrink and be cleansed before his very eyes. It was time to touch the foot. I knew I wanted to lay hands on it. But when the time finally came, and came so fast I didn’t know what to do. So I put a hand on his shoulder and prayed. And then….
Nothing happened. At least not visibly.
The heavens didn’t open up and a host of angels didn’t come down and light didn’t emanate from the wound and the whole town didn’t come to the Lord all at the same time. No, I simply prayed for him. And while I think it helped in some way, it wasn’t what I thought would happen. Beyond that, I think I should’ve touched the foot.
I wanted to. I felt called to. But I became nervous. What if I went to all this trouble to touch this grotesque foot and nothing happened? What if his infection got all over me? What if there isn’t enough time? What if I’m holding everything up?
What if? What if? What if?
I should’ve touched the foot. I know that. And I think this will serve as a reminder to always go for the things that seem so incredibly strange, so gross, so ridiculous. I’ve seen many posts about people who prayed and nothing happened. But that wasn’t this, not really. I prayed, but I didn’t give it my all. I let fear hold me back ever so slightly. Would that man’s feet have been healed? Heck if I know for sure. I believe in the power that could make it happen, but not sure if it truly would’ve have. But that aside, I know that I was being pulled and told to pray for that man in a specific way and I didn’t do it.
You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.
It’s so interesting to see that I think this way now. And that after 11 months on the field He has me back out here to learn more and more. That I’m not and never will be done learning. That day He taught me about obedience and courage. A lesson I won’t soon forget. And I tell you this…
Next time I will absolutely touch the foot.
Wanna help me stay out here and find out all those things? You can! Please prayerfully consider supporting my trip. It still need around $4,000 to be fully funded for squad leading.
If you’re interested, please follow this link: https://www.adventures.org/give/donate.asp?giveto=worldrace&desc=Seth%20Powell&appeal_id=POWELLSETH
Or mail a check made out to Adventures in Missions to this address. Also, make sure you put my name in the memo line so that it gets to me.
Adventures in Missions
P.O. Box 742570
Atlanta, GA 30374-2570
