I was being asked if I would come along on another missions trip. How desperately I wanted to say yes! But my circumstances seemed unsure over the next few months. Not wanting to lose the opportunity but with my head buzzing with the ‘what ifs’, I replied falteringly, “Uhh…I most probably…..might” and everyone in the room burst out laughing.
Fast forward a few months. We had driven almost 8-10 hours to get to an idyllic valley nestled between the Lower and the Greater Himalayas. Our aim was to conduct pastor’s conferences in the region. But over the next 2 days, though we gave it all we had, the response from the area didn’t exactly have us throwing our hats in the air. Especially after what we had seen in some other places. We said our goodbyes, smiled politely and picked up our bags to leave, and someone (thank God) asked for one last prayer.
And suddenly He came. Crashed in. People began falling over without anyone touching them. Others getting wrecked by the kindness of God toppled over unable to remain standing. Involuntary cries of desperation began to ring out. What started as a quick, obligatory prayer lasted for more than 2 hours.
The team split up and went to different locations where they wanted more prayer. We entered, unable to speak, almost in a daze. Cramped into a room with elbows and knees apologetically jabbing each other, someone began loving on Jesus. Really that was all we needed to cut loose. Hindi, English, unknown languages began ascending…from a whimper to a rising crescendo…all in harmony with each other…sweet and holy devotion began filling the atmosphere…the sounds arose and I remember thinking to myself, “This is the sound of revival!”
In that moment if you were to burn and be consumed in the flame you were drawing near to, it didn’t matter. All that was needed was to get close. Closer. If you were to spend your life in seemingly obscure places, poured out as a drink offering, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you had to, somehow, know Him. Know Him more. More intimately. If you were to live like that and die with your name rubbed out with no markings for you to be remembered by, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you were faithful to the One who called you to be His.
Some time ago I made a decision. I, who had said, I most probably…might. Missions was not new to me. I had been born into a family of missionaries. But at this juncture, when the familiar question was asked of me, in spite of the buzzing in my head, everything seemed silent. Silent but momentous. As if heaven were reaching over to see what my answer would be. And who knew that that road would lead to one of the most vivid encounters of that season of my life.
I had barely lived to see a quarter of a century, but it seemed like my mind had found its quiet resolve. If there was one thing my life was going to be about, it would be this one thing. Presence. The presence of the King. The presence of Abba. The presence of the absolutely wonderful Holy Spirit. There was nothing compared to it. No other place that satisfied like this. No other place where the spirit could drink deeply from. When nothing made sense, stepping into the presence would make those things lose their power to plague the soul. Perspective was gained in the presence. The purpose of things became clear as you drew closer to the Source of all things. And there nothing else mattered. For He alone rightly remained.