Not a Coincidence
"Where's Jordan?" we asked our friend. "Cleaning up my mess," he responded.
Was this a figurative mess? We'd been knocking on doors for several hours and talking with people about Jesus. Had they gotten into a nasty debate?
No. It was a literal mess.
From the moment we arrived in this neighborhood, our friend felt sick. His headache increased along with our boldness. As they knocked on a door, our friend told Jordan, "I do not feel well."
The door opened.
Two young women responded and quickly invited the two men with the chocolates inside for coffee. Our friend graciously took the coffee but was feeling worse and worse. When the ladies left the room for a moment, Jordan took a giant sip of our friend's coffee to make it look like he'd been enjoying it. After chatting about cultures, religion, and the local community, it was [finally] time to leave.
Descending the warm stairwell, our friend couldn't continue. He was sick. After leaving his mark, he met the rest of our group by the car and continued vomiting while Jordan knocked on a few more doors to ask for help.
As our friend stood hunched over some weeds, a man passed by and mumbled, "Pray for him... he needs it."
We see it as no coincidence that our friend got sick at the very moment he and Jordan were invited into the first home in this neighborhood. He took the longest metro ride of his life and crashed on his couch for the next several hours while the rest of our group continued. At approximately 8pm, just as we concluded for the day, our friend felt immediately better.
This story is a part of a series of posts describing our time in northern France. For more stories, click here, and here.
Was this a figurative mess? We'd been knocking on doors for several hours and talking with people about Jesus. Had they gotten into a nasty debate?
No. It was a literal mess.
From the moment we arrived in this neighborhood, our friend felt sick. His headache increased along with our boldness. As they knocked on a door, our friend told Jordan, "I do not feel well."
The door opened.
Two young women responded and quickly invited the two men with the chocolates inside for coffee. Our friend graciously took the coffee but was feeling worse and worse. When the ladies left the room for a moment, Jordan took a giant sip of our friend's coffee to make it look like he'd been enjoying it. After chatting about cultures, religion, and the local community, it was [finally] time to leave.
Descending the warm stairwell, our friend couldn't continue. He was sick. After leaving his mark, he met the rest of our group by the car and continued vomiting while Jordan knocked on a few more doors to ask for help.
As our friend stood hunched over some weeds, a man passed by and mumbled, "Pray for him... he needs it."
We see it as no coincidence that our friend got sick at the very moment he and Jordan were invited into the first home in this neighborhood. He took the longest metro ride of his life and crashed on his couch for the next several hours while the rest of our group continued. At approximately 8pm, just as we concluded for the day, our friend felt immediately better.
This story is a part of a series of posts describing our time in northern France. For more stories, click here, and here.
Its crazy how spiritual warfare shows in very physical ways.
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