In my teens, while I was at boarding school, I became seriously ill. I resisted going to see a doctor or going to a medical clinic, since my money was extremely limited, and it was taking all that I had saved to keep me in school and buy food to live on from day to day. A doctor’s bill or a hospital bill would devastate my savings, and I might be forced to live with a relative, or even become a housemaid, as I had previously, a miserable experience.

My sickness was taking away my appetite, causing rapid weight loss. Soon it was evident to all my schoolmates that I was seriously ill. Finally, the students prevailed upon me to seek medical treatment, and the doctor told me the very news I did not want to hear.

First, he advised that I was suffering from a combination of malaria and typhoid. This could be a deadly combination, and he told me that in my condition I was lucky I had not already died. He wanted to keep me in the hospital for some time and told his nurse to prepare an IV for me. I was left alone in the hospital room for a few minutes. My mind began to race, and I began to panic. Not only would I be forced to pay a doctor bill, but a hospital bill, and a bill for the medications that the IV would contain. This would totally spoil my plans of continuing in school, and I would soon be back home in the village with no degree, no skills, no money, and no home.

While the nurse was in another room preparing the IV, I bolted. I walked out of the clinic with as much authority as I could muster, fearful lest someone shout at me and order me back to my room. But there was no shout, and I made it safely out of the hospital and onto the street. I did not look back but walked as briskly as my legs would carry me, given my state of sickness and extreme fatigue. I was shaking, feverish, and trembling so violently that my teeth rattled against each other. Where to go?

In my heart I knew that if I could not pay for a doctor and a hospital stay, I would have to turn to God. I was a good Catholic girl, and I had a respect for God, but I did not really know Him. I was not born-again – not yet. I remembered a “Foursquare” pastor who had often talked with me, attempting to convert me to Jesus and urging me to have a “born-again” experience. This man carried himself with authority, but at the same time he seemed a kind and nice man, and I thought, if anyone could pray for a miracle for me, it was surely him. I stopped a taxi and instructed the driver to take me to his house.

 
Enlisting Prayer

I poured out my story to him and asked for his prayers. He was more than eager to pray for me. It did not matter that I was not a member of his church, or that I had steadfastly resisted his efforts to get me “born-again.” I was in trouble, and he called his wife to join him in prayer for me. He brought out a bottle of olive oil and poured it over my head. He emptied the entire bottle on me, which began to drip down my face and created a terrific mess. I didn’t mind. If this was what it took to get me healed, I would gladly accept it. He could have poured a dozen bottles of oil on me, and I would not have complained.

Then he and his wife began to pray. These were not the formal, ceremonial prayers of the Catholic priests I had known. These prayers were filled with urgency; they were loud and boisterous. He called on God, he rebuked the Devil, and he commanded me to be healed in the name of Jesus. But he did not stop there. He kept on praying, essentially praying for the same object, my healing, in a multiplicity of ways. He shouted, he laid his hands on my forehead, he went on and on and on for about an hour. I drank it all in and hope arose in me. This kind of praying must surely be touching heaven. Perhaps I was not going to die after all.

Finally, the pastor and his wife prayed them-selves out. They sent me back to my dorm at school, encouraging me to believe God for my complete healing. I walked slowly for perhaps 25 minutes to my school. I was still feeling sick and shaky, with all that anointing oil draining down my face. If I were healed, I sure could not feel it. I felt as bad as ever, but still I had hope. I just might be OK. For now, I needed to rest.

Back in my dorm room I was totally exhausted from the walk that seemed to last forever. I was both hungry and tired, but the tiredness outweighed the hunger. I collapsed on my bed. It was around 4 pm, but I slept right through the evening and through the night. This day was a Friday, and on Saturday morning I woke up at the normal time. I immediately sensed that I was different. All the fatigue, all the soreness, all the fever, and the sense of death that had engulfed me in the last weeks was totally gone. I was strong and I was healthy once again. I felt… normal!

 Healed!

I was thrilled. The pastor’s prayers had worked! God had surely answered those prayers, and after several weeks of malaria with typhoid, I was strong once again. I quickly ran to my friend and told her, “Look at me – I’m healed!” She could hardly believe it. Even though I was still terribly skinny, my voice and my demeanor reflected my healing. I was simply not the same girl she had seen for the last several weeks. We rejoiced together as I told her all about my visit with the pastor, and his lengthy and powerful prayers for me. Surely God had healed me. I was thrilled to be well again, and amazed that this healing and wholeness had come unquestionably as an answer to this Pentecostal pastor’s prayers. I appreciated him so much and I appreciated his God who had answered his prayers. His God was not yet my God, but I was strongly attracted to this God who was in the here and now, and who heard the prayers of his servants.

When Sunday rolled around, I was determined to attend his church. I figured that if this man had enough of God to get me healed when nothing else had worked, he must be in touch with God. I talked my friend into going with me. The service was completely unlike any service I had ever attended. It was lively, it was enthusiastic, and there was a strange presence there, which I later discovered was from the Holy Spirit. Despite the service being so radically different from anything I had ever known, I found it attractive and compelling. In the middle of the service, I told my friend, “We must start coming to this church regularly.”

 “We’re not Sinners”

The pastor’s sermon was fiery and evangelistic. He declared that we are all sinners, and we need to receive Jesus in order to be forgiven and be allowed to go to Heaven when we die. This was new to us. We never really considered ourselves “sinners” and when, at the end of his sermon, the pastor invited all sinners to come for-ward and pray to be saved, we stayed glued to our seats. It seemed too humiliating to publicly admit that we were sinners, which we associated with killers, thieves, and the like. While several people did come forward and pray to be forgiven and born again, we sat in our seats. We were “good girls” who surely did not need this kind of embarrassment or forgiveness. As the pastor called people to come forward and repent, I said to my friend, “We’re not sinners, right?” She replied, “No, we’re not sinners. We’re not going forward.” And that settled it. We did not move.

 Born-Again

After praying with those who came to the front of the church for salvation, the pastor gave a second invitation. Now he announced that he wanted to pray with everyone who needed some special blessing from God: money, healing, advancement, a job, and so forth. This sounded a whole lot better to us than coming forward as a sinner to pray for forgiveness. My friend said to me, “We need blessings, right?” And I firmly replied, “Yes, we need blessings, so let’s go forward.” Perhaps this pastor’s prayers for blessings would be as effective as his prayers for me for healing, so without hesitation we rushed up to the front to receive whatever blessings might come our way as a result of his prayers.

It seemed as though the pastor had been waiting for us, and he immediately came up to us and told us to stand beside him while he prayed a prayer for blessings for the many others that came forward. After his prayer, he told us to come with him and his wife, to his office for counsel. By now I was more than a little curious as to why he had singled us out for this special time with him. But when we were all seated in his office, his tone was more of a rebuke than a word of encouragement.

He began by saying, “So you didn’t want to come out to receive Jesus for salvation, but when I offered a prayer of blessings, you rushed up. You should give your life to Jesus first, and then the blessings will follow.” He quoted the Scripture, “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be added unto you” (Matthew 6:33). He made it clear that first we must be saved and become children of God, and then all the blessings that we need in our lives will follow.

He spoke so forcefully and with such authority that we felt guilty. Perhaps we had offended God by coming forward for a prayer of blessings but refusing to come forward earlier for the prayer of salvation. We meekly told him, “We’re sorry! We didn’t know that this is how it works.” He told us, “What you dodged (salvation), you are going to receive after all.” And with that, he led us to Christ, and we obediently prayed the sinner’s prayer with him.

 Transformed

That little “sinner’s prayer,” offered in a state of confusion by a young woman who knew al-most nothing of spiritual things, took deep root and made a huge change in my life. From that moment on, I had a witness in my heart that I belonged to Christ, and I had a keen awareness that a burden had been lifted from me. I experienced a deep sense of relief and freedom in those next few days.

From that time on I was pulled into the church and its many meetings, special services, prayer gatherings, evangelistic outreaches, youth meetings, and every other activity they offered. I was transformed from a nominal church attender into an on-fire teen who could never do enough for God. I immediately began inviting other students to attend my new church with me, and many did. Like me, they gave their lives to Jesus, and we had a sort of spiritual revival within our school dormitory.

It has been many years since those days, and I am still doing my little part to invite unbelievers to give their lives to Jesus. I consider those days of my conversion to Christ such a special time in my life. How amazing that God could use my terrible sickness to direct me to His Son and provide me a double healing: healing from my Malaria and healing from the far worse disease of sin. Jesus does it all, and He does all things well!