Years ago, Lois and I found ourselves in Kyiv, Ukraine, standing in the midst of a crowd that seemed to stretch endlessly. We had come to pray for the sick—an opportunity that changed us far more than we could have imagined. As we look back on that time, we aren’t trying to sensationalize what took place. We want to open a window for you—to let you see a little of what it’s like to minister in such settings. For those who have never gone on a mission trip, perhaps this will stir something in your heart. And for those who’ve stood in long lines of need, perhaps this will feel familiar. I still remember her face.

A mother, pressing her young son—he must have been about seven years old—close to her side, slowly inching her way through the crowd. Each time I finished praying for someone, she moved a little closer. I could see the determination in her eyes but also the desperation. That’s the part that stays with you. When you really look—when you meet their eyes—you realize that for many, Christ is their only hope. Medical care is too expensive. Medicine, if it can even be found, is often out of reach. There is no other way. No fallback plan. It’s Jesus—or nothing. “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”—Psalm 147:3

Eventually, an opening formed. I motioned for them to come, and with the help of my interpreter, I asked what they needed prayer for. The mother looked down at her son and gently touched his chest. “His heart is enlarged,” she said quietly. “He’s very sick.” She had been stroking his hair tenderly while waiting—holding him as if she was trying to shelter him from the world. I knelt and placed one hand on his chest, the other behind his back, praying that Jesus would touch him. As I prayed, I could feel warmth build in my hands. The presence of the Lord was so strong.

Then Something Unexpected Happened

He didn’t fall backward like others sometimes do when touched by the Holy Spirit. Instead, it was as though his small frame simply melted. One moment he was standing, the next he had sunk softly to the floor. I helped ease him down, making sure he was comfortable, then got down on the ground beside him.

I stayed there with him—just the three of us now; the little boy, his mother, and me. My hand still rested on his heart, and I could feel it pulsing so strong beneath my palm. Around us, the room bustled with people waiting, movement and noise swirled, but it all faded. In that moment, time stood still.

The Holy Spirit was upon me, and waves of compassion rolled through me. Again and again, like the tide washing over the shore. I sat on that hard floor for what felt like a long while, unmoved by anything but the heartbeat beneath my hand and the silent, aching love in the eyes of a mother watching her child. She stood quietly, hands clasped in front of her, her gaze fixed on her son. Her expression said more than words ever could.

If an artist had tried to paint it, they would have fallen short—it held too much depth, too much pain and hope intertwined. I looked up at her, then back at the boy. My prayer shifted—not just for healing, but for mercy, for love, for the will of God to be done. That’s the mystery of it all, isn’t it? “The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective.”—James 5:16 (NIV)

We come to the mercy seat not with answers but with hope. We pray not because we know the outcome, but because we trust the One who holds it. Was that boy healed? I don’t know. I may never know—at least not until eternity reveals the hidden things. But I hope I never stop caring enough to ask. I hope I never stop kneeling beside the hurting and praying like it’s the most important thing in the world.

People sometimes ask me how I know if someone has truly been healed. And the truth is, I usually don’t. That part isn’t up to me. My job is to pray. God’s part is to heal. I’ve learned to rest in that. We do try to be responsible. We ask, “Do you feel better now than when we started? Do you believe you’ve been fully healed or partially healed?” And if it’s partial, we keep praying—or ask them to return the next day. We encourage them that healing can come later—in the night, on the way home, in the quiet of their own room. We’ve seen it happen too many times to doubt.

Some people get caught in wishful thinking, and others truly experience healing. But we aren’t in the business of manipulating outcomes. We’re in the business of obedience. And if you want statistics, here’s one you can count on: More people are healed when I pray than when I don’t. We’ve learned to walk in humility—recognizing that it’s never about us. It’s about Jesus. It’s always about Jesus. “And these signs will accompany those who believe: In my name they will lay hands on the sick, and they will recover.”—Mark 16:17–18

Perhaps one day, Lois and I will meet that little boy again—strong and grown, maybe with a family of his own. Or perhaps we’ll meet another child just like him. In truth, we already have. Every place we go, we find more faces like his. More mothers with tired eyes and tightly clasped hands. More fathers are holding on to hope as if it were the last thread they have left. More stories are still waiting to unfold.

And so, we keep going. We keep praying. Not because we’ve all the answers but because we’ve seen what happens when heaven touches earth—even for a moment. We do it because there’s a world full of people who need someone to kneel beside them and remind them that God still sees, God still heals, and God still loves.

Perhaps this story resonates with you. Maybe you’ve felt the urge to step out and go—to pray for someone desperate for a miracle. Missions aren’t just for the bold or the famous. They’re for the willing. For anyone who says, “Here I am, Lord. Send me.” You don’t have to know everything. You have to care enough to show up. The rest—well, that’s up to God.

            May we never forget—the Spirit of God is still moving, still healing, still calling us to step out in faith. Whether it’s in a packed church in Kyiv or a quiet moment in your living room, the same Jesus who walked the dusty roads of Galilee is with us now. Let this story remind you that the harvest is still plentiful, and the workers—though often tired—are not alone. He is with us. And He is still the Healer. Even now, war rages across Ukraine, and countless lives are being shattered by loss, fear, and pain. Behind the headlines are real people—mothers, children, and the elderly—crying out not only for healing, but for hope. May our prayers rise like incense, and may we never grow numb to the suffering, or forget that only Jesus can bring true peace.

In Him!