was and the message I was to bring. As a preacher, I knew this
was a dreadful situation. You cannot speak to any group or
bring any message in which you yourself do not believe.
The next thing I knew, I was completely wrapped up in her.
(In America, I’ve never allowed myself to be so vulnerable with
another person.) My arms were around her neck, my body
flung over her voluptuous chest, her arms around my back. She
began to boldly pray aloud for me. And I mean loudly. Anyone
within fifty feet of us could hear her. She called on God; she
stroked my head (another awkward moment) and let me wail.
She comforted me as she spoke words of power over me. She
held me—and I’m not exaggerating—for perhaps four to five
full minutes. And she didn’t let go until I had regained my
courage, trusted God for our safety and the power to deliver a
life-changing message, and was expectant that those who were
seeking God would find Him.
As I look back on this unusual circumstance (it’s not every
day I cry like a baby in the arms of a complete stranger in the
middle of a field in Ndola, Zambia), I’m grateful that God
worked through Jenny to almost literally squeeze the fear out
of me and breathe new life into me. Though it took quite a few
(embarrassing) minutes, I finally felt reassured that I would be
able to continue to do what He had asked me to do.
Over the next two nights, my husband tells me that more
than one thousand young children and older teens came to
Christ, prayed out loud with me, and raised their hands for
healing. Jenny became my interpreter on the second night, and
our tandem preaching will remain one of my fondest memories
of all time. She seemed to know every word I said before I said
it. And she delivered my testimony with the same passion that