Written by: Cynthia Butler

Julie picked up the cross that her grandfather had given her when she was a child. She reached around her neck fastening the chain, as she did every day. The golden pendant would glint in the light of the sun as she walked to work. She wore it prominently just above her heart. It was not a fashion statement. It was an act of faith.

The necklace might have been what caught the eye of the man who walked into the call booth that morning. She wore no head covering, no burka, no ring in her nose; instead a cross hung above the collar of her shalwar kameez. He recognized right away she was not a Muslim like most of the other Pakistani girls he knew.

“Are you a Christian?” he asked her pointedly.

“Yes, sir.” She answered.

“Are you a Christian?” he inquired again.

“Yes, sir.” She replied. When he questioned her a third time she exclaimed in frustration, “Didn’t I tell you so?”

She began to feel the pressure rise; it was like the heat of her father’s scorn. “You’ll bring shame to the family,” he had predicted. She was the first born; a daughter, not a son as he had hoped. “You’re nothing,” he had insulted her repeatedly, but that just made her want to prove him wrong. She had hoped to go to school and become a doctor, but after her mother took ill and her father broke his back the financial burden of the household fell on her. She had to lay aside her dream and work long hours to provide for her family. At only 16 years old she already carried more stress than many, but living with an abusive father had not made her doubt herself, and living as a religious minority had not made her doubt her God.

“You know Christians are going to Hell, and you’re living your life in the gutter,” the man told her.

Julie looked at him directly. “I know where I’m going,” she assured him.

“If you change to Islam,” he continued, “your life will be better. You will live like a queen. You will have everything.”

“I have everything,” she countered. “God gave me two hands, two feet, a perfectly healthy body. I can work. I have everything.”

“You work for so little money. If you change to Islam everyone will support you,” he claimed. Julie had heard this promise given to others before her. Sometimes a desperate Christian would convert to Islam in order to earn financial security. At first their decision would pay off. But in a month or so the support would cease and they would be on their own again. Regardless, she didn’t plan to sell herself or her faith for money.

“I don’t need anybody’s support; I can support myself,” she declared.

Undeterred, he laid money on the table hoping to bribe her to convert. “I’m trying to save your soul,” he pressed. When she declined him again he warned her “I’m giving you one last chance. You know that you’re going to Hell.”

“I don’t need your chance,” she refused, “I know where I’m going.”

Seeing that she would not be convinced with money or words, he turned to force. The man grabbed her and tried to rape her, but she slapped him. Throwing his money in his face, she asserted, “I’m a girl, but I’m not weak. Get out of here.”

“I’m giving you one last chance,” he repeated laying even more money in front of her. “Take all this and change to Islam. I’m trying to save your soul. You’re living in the darkness.”

“I know I’m living in the light,” she defied him.

“So you think Islam is in the dark?” he challenged her.

“You said so,” she confirmed.

Julie’s heart was pounding as the man stormed out of the building. He was gone, but was he gone for good? She had slapped a man who towered over her. She had proclaimed her Christian faith and had refused to turn to Islam.   She was bold, but she was scared. She sat alone in the call booth, trembling, waiting for her boss to return. 10 minutes. . . 20 minutes . . . 30 minutes; her employer was still gone. Finally, Julie heard the door open, but it wasn’t her boss. As she turned her head to look toward the door she saw the violent man coming for her again. This time he carried an open bottle of acid in his hand. He slung the liquid toward her. She raised her hand and turned her head, but it was too late. The liquid slapped against her face and her arm, burning as it dripped down. Just then, an accomplice rushed in and yanked her hair back.

“We’re going to destroy the mouth that said ‘no’ to Islam,” the first man growled, holding the bottle of acid only inches from her face. Julie thrashed her body, struggling to wrestle free of their grasp, but the two men restrained her. She felt the acid running down her throat like fire in her esophagus.

Her attackers fled the building, and she ran screaming into the street. A lady from one block away heard her cries and came to her aid. She threw her head covering over Julie and led her to her house. Julie’s clothes were melting. Her skin was still smoking. She was walking through a nightmare.

The men who had attacked Julie were soon caught. They told the police and the crowd that was gathered that Julie had insulted Islam. With this one statement they were released, and the crowd turned against Julie. She had been taken to a hospital for treatment, but the angry mob threatened to set the hospital on fire if she stayed there.

“We’re not going to treat her,” the doctor decided. “We’re not going to put other people’s lives at risk for her.” So Julie’s family moved her to a different hospital, but they also refused to treat her. When a third hospital gave the same answer Julie’s mother ardently reasoned with the doctor, “When you got your degree, you swore that you would help whoever needed help, not only people who are Muslim. And now, she’s a Christian and you’re not going to help her?”

“She’s going to die anyway, so what’s the point of it?” he questioned her.

“She’s going to die,” her mother conceded, “But still, she is breathing.”

It seemed futile to him. He knew it might even be dangerous, but he finally had mercy on Julie and agreed to treat her. For 20 days the nurses put IV fluid in her veins and honey on her wounds. For 20 days the doctor told Julie’s family, “She’s going to die today.” On the 21^st day, he was right.

Julie lay helpless in her bed. She could not talk, see, or move, but she could hear. Of all the faculties she lacked, she might have wished that her hearing was one of them on that final day of her life. But she heard every word her father said to her mother, and she could give no reply. The people of the town had been calling Julie every bad name they could think of. Even her uncle had talked about her as if she were a slut. Her father was tired of hearing all the insults.

“The doctor said she’s going to die. And if she lives she wouldn’t be able to speak or see. I’m not going to feed her for the rest of my life. Let’s throw her out of the window,” he proposed. “Nobody will know who did it.” His words cut like a knife. All of the suffering that Julie had undergone up to that point did not compare to the sting of his hatred. At once her heart was inflamed with hopelessness. She could hear her mother franticly resisting his murderous plan, but the damage was already done. Everything that once was hers had been taken from her: her beauty, her independence, and now at last, her will to live. God was the only one who could hear her heart as it swelled with anger.

“Why did You do this to me?” she protested. “I stood up for You, and You made me go through so much. I don’t want to hear one more word. I don’t want to live this handicapped life. If You care about me a little bit, take me.”

That night Julie’s condition worsened until she couldn’t breathe. She was in such pain; she thought that God was punishing her for blaming Him.

“You are making it so difficult for me because I said bad things about You. Just think how I felt when people were saying bad things about me.” But God was not punishing her; He was answering her prayer. Her body quickly began to shut down, and finally her heart stopped beating. Her life ended. The doctor pronounced her dead.

Julie’s spirit passed into God’s presence, and she felt peace that she had never experienced. There in the stillness, she wished that she could take back the things she had said to God, but He did not speak to her judgmentally. He spoke with words of comfort. And while Julie’s family prepared to take her corpse for burial, God proceeded to enlighten her about all the things He still wanted her to accomplish on the earth. Then Julie’s spirit returned to her body, full of heavenly encouragement; ready to start a new life. Her mother was standing beside her weeping when, all of a sudden, she saw Julie’s toe twitch.

“She’s alive!” her mother exclaimed.

But the doctor dismissed it. “That’s not possible. I have 35 years experience. There is no way.”

“No, she’s alive!” her mother repeated.

“You just saw your daughter die; you got shocked,” he assumed. “You’re crazy.”

Undaunted, she persisted, “No, I’m not crazy; she’s alive!” Her mother begged the doctor over and over to give her oxygen; finally he agreed, just so that she would leave him alone. The nurse applied the mask, and Julie’s mother waited expectantly. She listened to the hiss of the oxygen and watched her daughter’s motionless chest. 15 minutes passed. Julie gasped! Her mother called the doctor over immediately. He saw her lungs expand with air. He heard the sound of her breath. His mouth dropped open. The devout Muslim was flabbergasted.

“Whatever she believed is beyond my thought,” he confessed “I’ve never seen anything like that.” What a source of joy these words were to Julie when her mother recounted them to her later! All the pain seemed worth it. God had shown his power and vindicated her faith with a miracle that could not be explained.

But the angry mob still wanted her dead. They heard the news that she had passed away and come back to life. It would be an insult to Islam if she survived, they thought. So they came to the hospital armed with guns. The doctor informed Julie’s mom of the plot. “It’s not safe for her here. Take her somewhere else,” he advised.

They left in haste and found a hospital that was willing to admit her, but the doctor didn’t think she would survive, nor did he wish her to. Over and over again he would state matter-of-factly that she would never see again, never speak again, and never move her hand again. It was disheartening to hear his negative prognosis day after day for 3 months.

“There is no improvement. If she lives she will be handicapped,” he said.

Julie started crying and praying to God, “You gave me a reason to live. You want me to fulfill your purpose, but how? How am I going to do this? I can’t speak; I can’t move my finger; I can’t even see. Living a handicapped life- that’s how I’m going to fulfill your purpose?”

Julie began to feel a burning sensation. It was different than the burning of the acid. It was an urge to move. In her discouragement, she resented this new discomfort. Was God putting her through more suffering because she had complained to him about her limitations? She thought, if only the fan could be turned on then maybe the burning would subside. But she could not let anyone know her need. She had to try to accomplish it herself. Without even realizing what she was doing she began to move her arm. For 20 minutes she struggled to pick up her hand and each time she did, she promptly dropped it again. At last, Julie got hold of the side of her bed and pulled herself up. Her wounds were open and bleeding. But the burning she felt was more powerful than the pain from her injuries. She stiffly turned and rose out of bed groping the wall blindly for the string that controlled the fan. She managed to turn it on, but it didn’t make a difference. A patient’s family member saw her standing against the wall and exclaimed, “She’s going to fall!”

Julie’s mother ran to support her, crying out in joy to the doctor, “See. You said she would never be able to move. Look she’s moving!” Julie was struck with humility and gratitude. “I’m sorry I doubted you,” she prayed. She could see that God was beginning to restore her.

But the doctor was still pessimistic: “So what. If she’s moving, that doesn’t mean that she can talk or see. That doesn’t mean anything.”

Julie listened to the doctor’s skeptical assertion even as she was still confessing her own lack of faith. She had been guilty of unbelief, too, but hearing the doctor’s denial made her mad. “I wish I could talk to this doctor right now, God,” she thought. “I would tell him, ‘you went to medical school for 5 or 10 years, but who gave you a brain? Who gave me eyes when I was in my mother’s womb? Who gave me a voice when I was in my mother’s womb? If He can do it then, He can do it now.’” Julie longed to say all this to the doctor. She moved her lips forming the imagined monologue. To her surprise, she heard with her ears the same words she had heard in her mind. It was her own voice speaking them. Julie was overwhelmed. She stopped talking and began crying.

Her mother burst into tears and hugged her daughter. “She can talk!” she rejoiced.

The doctor still refused to be impressed. “So what,” he reiterated. “That doesn’t mean she can see.”

As Julie sat there and wept, her eyes started to itch. She had been bleeding and hurting all over; those sensations had been overshadowed by the excitement of her healing. But when she noticed the itching she began to pull bandages away from her face. “I see the light,” she marveled.

“You don’t see the light. You feel the light,” the doctor suggested. She insisted, but he would not believe her. He took a pen out of his pocket and held it in front of her. “What am I holding?” he tested her. “You’re holding a pen,” she answered. Then he raised two fingers, still unwilling to accept the proof he already had. “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked. “Two fingers,” she responded. Julie’s mother was standing nearby, and Julie saw that she was wearing the color orange. “How many times have I told you, I hate that color? Don’t wear that dress,” she told her mother. The doctor was so mad that he stormed off. Her faith flew in the face of his own beliefs and those of many of his countrymen, but he had nothing left to say against her. How could he argue with God himself and the miracles He was performing?

It would be a long road to full recovery. More persecution awaited her (even attempts on her life), surgeries, and exile. But what God had given to her, no one could take away. And where the golden cross had hung around her neck, there was a new and lasting display of faith. It was a scar- perhaps the jewelry of Heaven. Nail marks were imprinted in the hands of Jesus, even in his resurrected body. So, too, Julie wears a badge of honor on her skin, and it is beautiful in the eyes of God.

By: Cynthia Butler

I used to like hanging out with the nerds: the SAT-acing, philosophizing, scientific minds of my generation (or at least my high-school). Maybe they were rubbing off on me. That would explain why I started using mathematical functions to describe my love life (or lack there of). I was sitting next to Eric in the bus one morning, talking about my big crush: Kevin. He was musical, cute, Christian, everything I was looking for, but we were still just friends.

“I think our relationship is like a hyperbola,” I said. “You know, that line that gets closer and closer to the edge of the graph, but never intersects it? That’s us; we just keep getting closer and closer, but we never touch.”

“A rational function?” He clarified. “If that’s true then you should be making less and less progress.” I thought about his answer as the bus bumped along. It was surprisingly encouraging. Kevin and I were not making less progress; our interactions were, in fact, accelerating. We were progressing toward something. Yes, it had to be true. Who but Eric could use math to cheer up a frustrated friend? In retrospect, the conversation seems almost prophetic, or like some obvious foreshadowing in a quirky chick flick. Soon Kevin would unexpectedly put his arm around me during the long ride to Mexico with our church. Soon we would be sitting next to each other on the cool concrete rim of a fountain pondering our future together. Soon I would be spending who knows how many pesos making a call from a hotel in San Luis Potosi telling my parents that I was practically engaged.

It’s kind of romantic looking back on the days of longing, before I knew how the story was going to end. That uncomfortable waiting period, that expectant feeling; sometimes I think I even miss it. But here I am, married to my soul mate, living what I had previously only dreamed of. And when I am playing the waiting game in other areas of my life, I would do well to remember to have faith.

For some reason, The God who is eternal decided to confine his created beings to the boundaries of time, like little one-dimensional lines traveling on two-dimensional graphs toward an unknown destiny, while the all-knowing one looks on us with his multi-dimensional eyes and gives us little clues along the way. We hunger for those clues from God, never realizing that the very desire we feel may be a clue in and of itself. And desire that turns into hope could be a glimpse of the future.

How many afternoons did my sister Alicia and I harmonize in the backyard imagining what it would be like to record and perform our songs for audiences? Then the childhood fantasy became a calling one day when Alicia felt God tell her, “You will be Christian singers.” And these clues from God were treasures to us through the years as a ministry was born. Still, after we were married and moved to separate towns, ministering together became difficult. At times, it seemed that the dream would die completely. Finally our hope was rejuvenated and opportunity presented itself, inspiring us to quit our jobs and set out with our husbands as musical missionaries. After years of carrying this vision, we entered a season of fulfillment.

Now there is a new hope that is taking form in me. For a long time I was afraid to want it. But I am ready to pursue what, at one time, seemed unattainable: to live like Jesus did. I’m not just talking about remembering the golden rule like your Sunday school teacher taught you with her felt board characters. I mean calling down the power of God, healing, performing miracles. If we really believe that God is a miracle-working God then why don’t we expect Him to do the impossible? And why don’t we expect to do the impossible through His power?

Let me stop myself before I preach. The point is, I want to see this happening in my life. And I’m finally believing that it can. But I’m not there yet. I still feel like I’m manufacturing confidence if I rebuke illness, like I’m trying on clothes that are too big for me. I memorize scriptures, and I quote them in prayer, but I don’t know that I’ve ever healed the sick or cast out a demon. I could become discouraged, wondering if anything will ever come of my efforts. But it’s not as if nothing is happening. What was once a distant dream is now a passion. And God is awakening me to miracles that are happening even now, positioning me to be taught by those who have experienced them. He is broadening my understanding of scriptures about healing, and He is answering my prayers, even if not all at once.

I remember standing in my room when I was a child, wishing I could be a teenager like the big kids I admired. Time passed slowly back then. I felt so frustrated that I began to cry. “I’ll never be a teenager,” I thought.

Of course, that day did come eventually. It was inevitable. And I suspect spiritual growth is inevitable too, as long as we remain connected to Christ. I need to trust this process. A child cannot see herself grow while she looks in the mirror, but it is constantly happening under her nose (even to her nose).

The apostle Paul encouraged us: “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” (Gal. 6:9) So what can I do but continue on, celebrating each victory along the way, small though they may be. I will read the words of God and internalize them. I will trust them more than I trust my own perception. I will pray for what is humanly impossible. And I will believe that, whether or not I can see it happening, I am being “conformed to the likeness of [Jesus]” (Rom. 8:29)

By: Cynthia Butler

             John brought a cigarette to his mouth and took a long puff. Smoke rose in front of his eyes adding to the haze of his drunkenness. He could hear the sound of his grandfather’s melodic voice through the open hospital window as he sang a hymn. Johanna Muturi was on his deathbed, but his faith was still living. And he hoped that it would live on through his grandson.   He had raised John in his own home ever since he was a baby. As an Episcopal minister, he had set an example of Holy living. But John had become rebellious, delving into drugs and alcohol without regard for the consequences. Mr. Muturi had not given up on his grandson, though. He knew that his time on earth was nearing an end, and he had something important to tell him. How grateful he was to hear John’s voice when he walked into the hospital room that day.

‘Grandpa, can you recognize me?’

‘Oh, my grandson, you have come to see me. I have been wishing that you could continue the work that I started as an evangelist. I would love you to continue the work of the Lord.’ But John just squeezed his hand noncommittally before going outside to smoke.   He had no plans of becoming a preacher.   He didn’t want anything to do with salvation. Still, he listened to his grandfather’s comforting refrain drifting to his ears. “Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine.”   The song was gentle enough to soften his resistance.   “Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine.”. . . until all of a sudden the singing stopped. What had happened? John hastily crushed his cigarette stub underfoot and returned to the hospital room. He gazed at his grandfather’s lifeless body. A hundred years, countless sermons, and his last words had been for John.   Something stirred in John’s heart.   But he was still not ready to surrender. Little did he know that he’d nearly be on his own deathbed a year later.

A devastating car accident claimed the life of a couple of his friends when he was riding home with them from the bar one night. But John’s life had been spared. Bleeding and bed-ridden, he promised God, “If you get me out of this bed, I will work for you.” Maybe alcohol numbed the pain of his loss. Or maybe the grip of his addiction seemed unshakable. For whatever reason John broke his vow and continued on his collision course until he finally came to an impasse.

It was 10:00 in the morning. John had been up all night ordering drink after drink after drink until he had run out of money. He staggered to the nearest bank and asked to see the bank manager. Concocting some story about how his children were sick and his electricity was disconnected, he pled with the bank manager for a loan.

“I don’t believe you,” the manager informed him, “but I’m going to give you an overdraft.” John reached for his checkbook to write in it. Then he noticed a red badge that the manager was wearing over the pocket of his suit. The words “Jesus Saves” were printed on it. Again his heart was stirred.

“Are you born again?” John asked.

“Yes, I’ve accepted Jesus as my personal savior.” The manager told him

“Ok, I have lied to you Mr. Manager. And I need this Jesus Christ,” John confessed. He had been given warning before: the words of his grandfather, the accident. Now he could feel the voice of God in his spirit: “It is now or never”. Tears welled up in John’s eyes, and he dropped to his knees. The bank manager began to pray for him, and John received Jesus that very morning.

God immediately drew John into a church that focused his attention on the Holy Spirit. The bishop and the elders mentored him and they often invited him to pray with them. Over the course of three months God began to transform John and wean him off of his addiction. He was learning to live soberly. But he had no idea that the high he had experienced with drugs and alcohol would be surpassed by the euphoria God would give him through worship.

One night in the house of God John was worshiping and thanking the Lord, praying the scriptures and getting lost in a song. All of a sudden his tongue became loose, and an unfamiliar language leapt from his mouth. He didn’t know what he was saying, but he quickly realized that he was in the midst of a divine visitation. He could feel his whole body vibrating as he fell to the floor of the sanctuary.   There he prayed more intimately than ever before.

Now empowered by a fresh infilling of the Holy Spirit, John began to develop his prayer style. The gift of tongues that had come upon him involuntarily at first became a regular part of his worship experience. He would wake up early each morning and sometimes stay up late into the night to seek the Lord. One time around midnight John was praying alone at church when a scripture flashed across his spirit: “Heal me, O Lord, and I will be healed” (Jeremiah 17:14). “You’ve got to give that scripture to Beatrice,” God instructed him. John had worked with this young lady at the Kenyan Agricultural Research Institute until she had grown too sick to continue. She was beyond help as far as the medical community was concerned. Cancer had attacked her liver and practically turned her into a skeleton. The doctors could do nothing but send her home to die.

Her husband was shocked when a knock at the door roused her from bed. It was the first time she had been able to walk since the cancer had overtaken her.   “I am not here to stay,” John told them that dawn, “but the Lord gave me a scripture to give to Beatrice.” After he’d done what he came to do, he went home.   He didn’t even think much about the experience until a letter came in the mail years later. Beatrice had enclosed her picture, the photograph of a healthy vibrant woman. She told John how God had delivered her completely after he had come to their home.   She had been saved both physically and spiritually. What an encouragement it was to see the evidence now of what God had already revealed to him in scripture.

Ironically, when John was sent to speak healing over Beatrice he was still in need of healing himself. His blood had been poisoned by the toxins he had willingly ingested through the years. Chest pains, headaches, fatigue, tremors, lack of concentration; they were all signs of his body’s contamination. But God took John by surprise and healed him in an instant.

He and his wife Catherine were in bed fast asleep.   Suddenly John awoke in the middle of the night. A laser thin light was traveling directly toward him. It hit his eyes and filled the room with brightness. He could hear a deep voice saying, “GET HEALED!” John jumped out of bed in fear. But on his window there was an image of Jesus smiling at him kindly. “GET HEALED!” he heard again. Then the light retracted from his eyes. All he could do was scream. Catherine sprung up in bed startled. “I have just had an encounter with the Lord Jesus Christ, and He has healed me.” John explained.

That week John felt as if cool water had been poured over him; his whole body had been cleansed. He was free from pain, and able to think clearly. It was like a heavy load had been lifted from him.

John had begun to experience abundant life in Jesus. Not only did God restore his body, He also prospered him in educational opportunities. After John finished his masters in analytical chemistry he was selected to continue his studies in universities all over the world. He traveled to the Netherlands, Great Britain, again to Kenya and finally to the United States. But while he was at Oregon State University working toward a PHD God redirected his course.

John was working at the U.S. Agriculture when Bishops Robert Mzomba and Wellington Irungu found him. “God has sent us to come and ordain you as a pastor,” They said. “We were praying in Kenya, and God spoke to us that he wants you to start a ministry here in America.” John trusted that this was a message from God, but he didn’t know where to start. After the unexpected ordination, John enrolled in a Bible school in Washington State. The director discerned that God had chosen him for ministry, so he, too, ordained John. Two more times John was ordained. And two more times God confirmed his calling, but still he was working as a chemist. Finally a lady from Kenya came to America and sought him out. She was a stranger, but she had a message specifically for him: “I have been sent by God to tell you that God wants you to stop doing what you are doing and start the ministry.” By that time there was no doubt in John’s mind that the time had come. He had no funds to start the ministry. It would be Catherine’s salary that would support the whole family. But she knew as he did that God was directing his steps. Even his children assured him, “Daddy, we are going to back you up; we are going to do whatever we can, because we know God has called you.”

John recalled how God had spoken to him while he was still at Oregon State: “Gather my saints together.” (Psalm 50:5) “The end of all things is at hand.” (1 Peter 4:7) John knew that the Lord would be returning soon, and it was time for revival. He and his whole family had packed everything and boarded a train bound for Houston, Texas.   This was where God was leading him to preach the good news. But preaching is only one facet of his ministry.

Pastor John took the pulpit Sunday morning at End Times Revival Ministry Church, now 10 years past its inception. He called those who needed healing to come to the front. “The Holy Spirit is saying to me, ‘Don’t even preach if someone is in bondage.’ He proceeded to lay hands on the people and pray for their healing. The sermon could wait; healing ministry would come first.   John knows from experience what a blessing it is to be free from infirmity, and He knows that God is still working miracles on the Earth. So Pastor John is not waiting for Heaven to seek the supernatural presence of God, and neither are those who worship with him. They come with expectant hearts. And God is moving among them.