[The words in bold express the promptings and revelations of the Holy Spirit in this account as I lived and served in the mountaineous rural area of Swaziland at a place called El Shaddai.]
There I was running late by two minutes to church. By “to church” I mean walking up the hill from where I live to the little chapel where El Shaddai has congregants gather from the rural community out here. It is a dusty, tin-roofed, cement-floored school house chapel lined with about 5 rows of bench rows. On the forward facing left, the women and all the little children sit and sing. On the forward facing right, the men and all the boys who are old enough to tie their own shoes sit together.
I scurry to the back row in my long, ankle length, purple skirt. I sit. I take a deep breath and shake off the cold mountain chill. The worship team is a group of elementary school girls a cappela. It’s beautiful. I settle in. And then I don’t feel quite settled as I sit there with my eyes closed and have my mind flooded with violent thoughts.
Evil thoughts. I rebuke them away, recognizing them as not my own but just a distraction. Jesus is worthy to be praised and I stand to show it. I stand before Him, eyes closed, hands raised and no idea what is being said in the song sung in Siswati. Nevertheless, I hum and praise. The weird thoughts cease and I am given over to worshipping Jesus. His love sets me free.
I rest back in my seat. I bow my head in prayer and ask the Lord what just happened. A woman stands up to share a verse and then I hear a woman shuffling behind me and making an exit.
I keep praying and as I pray I feel the word rise up in my thoughts: demons.
I lift my head up and look around the church. The woman finishes reading the bible out loud and then a woman re-enters chapel at that moment. I can hear the distinct shuffle in her limping gate that she is the same woman who shuffled out behind me. She makes her way back to her seat. She sits. Her face grimaces.
Then the preacher gets up, and opens the word. He begins to read.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the limping woman stand up abruptly again and shuffle out quickly again.
Demons. Demons? Is it her, Lord? I pray.
I look up again thinking maybe she just went to use the bathroom. Go now. Follow her.
I feel an urgency to see if she is OK. She was limping. She grimaced. I’m trying desperately to tell myself I’ll need to pray for a healing.
Demons!
I look out the window to the right and see the woman limping along the road away from the church. She was leaving.
I pray quickly and get up from my seat. I quietly depart from the service.
I jog up the small hill and make my way to come alongside. She’s fast even with a limp.
“Hello! How are you? I’m Imelda. What is your name?”
She slows down to a halt and turns to me.
“My name is Phyllis Masego. I’m fine.”
“Phyllis, you left church. I came here to pray for you. Your right leg, is it hurting you? Can I pray for you?”
Lay hands on her. You will see.
“Yes, my right leg. You can pray.”
I looked around and saw a large enough rock where she could sit on the smooth surface and rest while I prayed. I pointed to it and indicated for her to follow me.
Her eyes narrowed. She murmured under her breath and limped toward the rock. She sat back. I smiled.
I reached out. “Phyllis, can I lay hands? Can I touch your leg to pray?” “Yes, you can. My name is Phyllis Masego. My forefather is Masego.”
Her breathing got labored as I came a bit closer, I reached out my hand, but before I touched her I asked:
“Phyllis, do you believe in Jesus? Do you believe He can heal you?”
“I love god more than anything in the world.” She answered with her eyes now shut tight and closed. Her mouth frowned.
I wondered if she was in pain and I set one hand on her hip and one on her shoulder.
