María

María

 

As my logistics partner Noah and my squad leader Marissa and I walked the sun soaked streets of downtown Granada, we reiterated once more, the itinerary for pulling money out of an ATM for our squad. The plan was to quickly pull out just enough money to cover our lodging fee for the next two weeks and then we would flag down another taxi to take us home. We were exhausted, each covered in a film of sweat, and simply ready to be done problem solving and calculating for the day. 

We came upon the street corner of “el Banco BAC,” suddenly overwhelmed with Spanish-speaking cash sellers and an intersection with traffic that will not stop for hardly anything. That’s when I spotted her. A woman who looked about seventy or so, maybe older, with graying black hair slipping out of the knot on the top of her head. She sat on the curb right outside of the bank, reaching her hand out and inquiring for money without saying a word. I didn’t notice her leg until we made it across the street, barely escaping the cars that merely honked to announce their communication to others that they were crossing the intersection. Her leg was crumpled and merely a scabbed stump, bloodied and infected as she sat straight up, gracefully as possible. 

My heart broke for her. She was in need, and it was a humbling thing to realize, that I couldn’t provide her with the resources that she needed. Hyperaware of her presence amidst the chaos, I tried desperately not to make eye contact, knowing I could do absolutely nothing for her. With nothing to give her and with an agenda to complete, I ignored her, for my own comfort. 

Marissa and Noah decided to go in without me to pull out money since I didn’t have a mask. So I was left on a crowded street corner with the woman. Looking everywhere but her, I began to feel the Holy Spirit tug at my heart even more than He had been before, and in an even more specific way. To pray. My heart galloped and my fear said “Absolutely not!” How was I meant to go up to a stranger and pray for them without a translator? 

Unable to resist any longer, I cut a glance at the woman on the street corner, and her eyes almost immediately shifted to mine. Then I felt it. Conviction. As she stretched her arm out to me, her eyes not leaving mine, I saw the hunger and I felt the call. I needed to pray. I had no idea how I would do it or what I would pray over. I didn’t know this woman or what was wrong. I immediately thought of the temple gate called Beautiful in Acts chapter three.

In Acts chapter three, Peter a disciple of Jesus, heals a lamb beggar at the temple gate called Beautiful as he was walking in with a fellow disciple, John. The beggar saw them walking into to the temple and he asked them for money before they could enter. “Peter looked straight at him, as did John. Then Peter said, ‘Look at us!’ So the man gave them his attention, expecting to get something from them. Then Peter said, ‘Silver or gold I do not have, but what I do have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk.’ Taking him by the right hand, he helped him up, and instantly the man’s feet and ankles became strong. He jumped to his feet and began to walk. Then he went with them into the temple courts, walking and jumping and praising God.”

Peter didn’t have anything. He just had the Lord. If that’s all the disciples needed, that’s all I need. If I truly believe this, then I have to believe that the Lord is all this woman needs because He is the only One that can truly provide for her. Maybe it sounds insensitive, or maybe it sounds impractical or delusional. However, if I know that the Word of God is truth, then I know that what Jesus says in Luke 12:22-34 is true. If He dresses the flowers and feeds the birds of the air, how much more will He do these things for us?

It was in the thick of this conviction and these scriptures coming to mind, that I decided that I had to pray. Not just that the Holy Spirit was inviting me to, but that I needed to accept this invitation. As soon as Marissa and Noah came out of the bank, I asked them, “How do you say ‘pray’ in Spanish?” Marissa replied, “Orar.” “We need to pray over that woman there.” I said with assurance in my voice, gesturing towards her. “Okay, let’s do it.” Marissa said. 

We walked over and I knelt down next to her, my heart pounding and my stomach flipping. “Como te llamas?” I asked for her name. “María.” She told me. I asked her in my very broken Spanish if we could pray over her. She said yes. Marissa prayed over her leg, and I prayed over her heart, while Noah simply prayed over her. The biggest thing the Lord put on my heart in that moment, was to pray that she may see Him. That He may be glorified through every bit of her hardship and trial. Though her situation is one which comes with fear and doubt that I cannot begin to fathom, I get to thank God that He has been where she is and worse. I thank God that He is sovereign over every single bit of it, and I prayed that right then and there, María would see it. 

After we had said “Amen.” María looked me in my eyes, her milk chocolate colored irises gleaming back at me and she kissed me on the cheek. She began to sob when I kissed her forehead. It broke my heart. I couldn’t help but wonder how long it had been since she had received any sort of affection at all. I wonder even now if she has family, or friends, or anyone who cares about her. The truth of the matter is, I can’t give any of this to her. I can’t give her people, but I can share a piece of the Father with her. I think I did. It’s a beautiful thing and I can’t help but think that I will continue to be enamored by it.  

She said more to me afterwards about God, but I couldn’t understand any of the Spanish words besides the name of Jesus. I simply looked her in the eyes and listened and sat in awe of what the Lord had carefully laid in my hands that sunbaked afternoon. Noah gave her his muffin from the coffee shop we had gone to, I gave her one last hand squeeze, and we left. 

 

Sometimes I listen to the enemy after I pray healing over the people who don’t end up healed. Sometimes I beat myself up with him when he hands me a bat that says “not good enough.” For an instant, I forget the miracles that the Lord has allowed me to witness, I forget the miracle of prayer itself. I forget the miracle it is, that we get to talk with the Creator of the universe. I forget that it’s not about me. 

That day, even though she wasn’t physically healed, we showed her a tiny fraction of the love her creator has for her. Regardless of what the physical result was in her circumstances, she gained something unseen. Something that breaks the boundaries of circumstance.