“So I have ghosts in my house.”
I looked over my microwaved Lean Cuisine meal, unconsciously raising my eyebrows toward Mischa. She was a skinny, attractive, late-twenties woman with dark black Cleopatra hair - a high school night teacher. I listened attentively as she extrapolated:
“Yeah, I haven't been able to sleep for the last week, because as soon as I turn the lights off, these....ghost things start showing up in my room. I put dragon's blood all over the room, but I don't know if it helped. I hope it does.”
At this, another teacher in the break room piped up. His name was Dale, a balding man in his late 50s with glasses and a well-aged, charming smile. He said, “Dragon's blood? What's that?”
“Yeah, are dragons real or something?” I added.
“No, it's a potion. I went to this like witchcraft shop and asked for it. It was really weird going in there. When I asked the lady across the counter for Dragon's Blood, she's like, 'ah, yur havin trouble with ghosts, are ya?' I was looking at her like she was weird, and it seemed like she thought I was pretty weird too.”
I could just imagine Mischa in that store with her skinny jeans and Egyptian hair cut, arms folded, staring at this little old lady.
“So she gave me the dragon's blood, and I'm like, 'thanks,' and got out of there. I poured that stuff all over my house...”
“Where, on like the carpet?” I asked.
“No, like on the doorframes and bedstand and stuff.”
I looked over at Dale, and he looked at me with his lips pushed together in a type of grimmace and his eyebrows raised flatly like two level platforms. “Are you serious?” he said, “Are you going insane or something?”
She began to answer, but I cut her off, “Nope, she's telling the truth, they're real.”
Dale just shook his head and went back to eating his food.
Later, after Mischa went back to class, Dale and I talked about it. He told me that he had been a Christian his whole life, but all of this was new to him. He said he'd heard about those types of things elsewhere, but said that “he never knew that kind of thing happened in Boise!”
I just smiled and shook my head. I had the trumpcard, but I didn't want to play it. I knew something that Dale had a sense of but Mischa had no idea about – those ghosts weren't ghosts at all, but demons. My heart was filled with compassion for her, as I knew that going up and telling her that wouldn't be very reassuring. She needed something real, something tangible, something that worked. The world is crying out for not only a God that's real, but also a God that is different than their parents' hateful, angry, judgmental, hair-trigger-temper idea of a loving Heavenly Father.

Valentine's Day Miracle

I tapped my fingers on the wheel at 1 and 11 o'clock, my head bobbing up and down. I took the turn, turning the wheel with the palm of my hand right on 12, moving the tapping to the armrest on my left, and maneuvered my green Ford Escort into the parking space in front of the church. Turning off the engine, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and glanced at the last text sent, rolling my eyes. As I leaned back and closed my eyes for a couple of seconds, sighing out my nose as I slumped out the door and into the church, I wondered why I had signed up for this.

Not that there was anything wrong with what was happening – it was a valentine's dinner for married couples. I absolutely love and value the married couples in my church – they have encouraged my life and modeled for me what a mature relationship looks like, and I appreciate that immensely. But I was tired – exhausted, even. It was one of those weeks – school, homework, 8-hour custodian workday. Re-rinse, re-use, re-wash, times five. And not only that, but it was Single's Awareness Day. The declaration on my friend Sandy's facebook status update page resounded in my head: “Dear single men of Boise: grow a backbone. Thanks, Sandy.” And amid all this, when I received a text from the pastor's son to help out with the dinner, I reluctantly said yes. And now, looking back, I'm so glad I did.

I smiled at a middle-aged man that I recognized from my church, dressed in a full tuxedo as he walked into the sanctuary. Everyone that came in looked beautiful - the red dresses, the high heels, the white bowties. I can't wait to get married.

As I began to serve the food to the teenage waiters and waitresses from our youth group, I noticed an older man out of the corner of my eye leaving the building with his wife. I knew this couple, they've been around charismatic churches in the Boise area for years, but this time I noticed something different that I can't believe I didn't notice before: the man was walking with a cane.

In the Bible, Jesus disciples were sent out with an odd mission: “Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons. Freely you received, freely give” (Matthew 10:8). I believe God is the same yesterday, today, and forever – He was the healer then, and He's the healer now. Programming had taken over – I switched to auto-pilot and walked over to the older man, my friend Bill.

Bill's eyes were on the door. After he walked through the door, his eyes were on the car. His wife helped him out by holding the door open just as I walked up, his grey hair beginning to slightly blow above his thick-framed glasses. They greeted me with warm smiles, but only for a second as their gaze was directed back toward their Mercedes. I went out on a limp:

“Hey, Bill! Did you guys have a good time?

His wife looked at me and said, “Yeah, we had a great time! Thanks so much for helping out tonight!”

“No problem! I'm just glad you guys had fun.” I paused and looked at Bill, who had made his way to the driver's-seat door. “Hey, I didn't know you had a cane! Are you in a lot of pain when you walk?”

Bill's lips turned flat. “Yeah, every day.”

“Hey, well...can I pray for you real quick?”

“Sure.”

“Ok!” I stepped down off the curb, putting my hand on Bill's shoulder. “Lord Jesus, I just pray for Bill right now, and I just ask that you come and heal his whole body, from head to toe, right now in the name of Jesus. Come and be with him tonight, Father. We love you God, thank you for being awesome. Amen.”

“Amen. Thanks Matt” he said as he got in the car and shut the door, immediately turning on the heater. His wife came and gave me a hug, and they were off.

The rest of the story is really interesting. Honestly I wasn't expecting anything to happen there, in fact it seems like the coolest stories are when God heals someone that I hardly remember praying for. I only remember this story because my mom texts me the next day while I'm at work, contemplating what God thinks of me and whether my future holds anything exciting. The text said “Bill, the guy you prayed for the other night, got totally healed!”

There was no white light on Valentine's Day. There were no angels (that I could see, anyway) that came and danced around the three of us as we huddled around his car on that cold February night. There was just me, a strangely zealous 23-year-old, alongside a loving woman full of grace, and an old man who, after he arrived home and got into bed, couldn't sleep because after 20 years of excruciating pain, was up for hours trying to figure out how a person without pain in their body sleeps. It truly was a Valentine's Day miracle. And Bill was God's Valentine.

on earth as it is in heaven

My eyes were closed, head held high, as Sam's disarming laughter rose up from within. I raised up my hands, my lips opening like the gate of heaven before me.
Chinden Rd, Ustick Rd.
Light flooded my senses as my consciousness slipped into my Father's powerful arms. To my left stood a large being in a white robe and ballerina slippers, rhythmically stepping to the left, to the right, her head following the lead of her heart, her wings fluttering up as the curl of her lips broke down my defenses.
Fairview Ave, Franklin Rd.
To my right was another being, this one having fur all over his back, raised on his hind legs, his cuddly paws clapping together in unison with the angel's wings, lurching forward, then crawling back, as if an invisible wall was keeping him in place.
Locust Grove, Eagle Rd.
I opened my eyes – and there he was, the man of liberty. The sign he passionately shook around promised relief to those under heavy financial burden – he gives us rest. His pimply teenage face and red hair were counteracted by his warm, inviting smile, drawing us into his presence. The glow about him pierced through our very souls. This was our man – the target of God's grace.
The car drifted in slowly beside this guy into a small dirt lot to the side of an abandoned building. He eyes met Sam's for a second before he returned to his liberty tax dance. Sam never took his eyes off this guy. As the car came to a stop, Sam bounded out of the driver's seat and approached the Statue of Liberty. The sound of traffic muffled the voices coming from the corner of the street, and I opened the door to put one foot out on the dirt before I stopped dead. As I watched, I saw a gentleness in Sam's eyes, but the fire lingered just underneath – pulsating, ravaging. Heaven had opened again - without any music playing and with my eyes wide open. I was pinned to my seat. My heart rate lessened, my thoughts fled, and my arms sighed with relief, slumping onto the armrest.
It came in waves. Nothing about the two men's conversation gave any clue as to what was happening – but I could feel it. It was more real than if a hundred soldiers showed up outside my patio, guns ready to blow out the windows. I sometimes wonder if what we see in this physical world is the true reality. Going out on these treasure hunts gives me a different perspective.
One time I was at a hardcore metal show downtown. Only the glow of the stage lights and the occasional white shirt sticking out like a sore thumb could be seen in the cave of the Boise Venue. The dark room masked the dancing, if you can call it that, happening on the floor. Amidst the screaming chords and the hoots and hollers of avid fans, I overheard a snippet of a conversation coming from my diagonal-right. From what I can see, It's between a short, skinny guy with shaggy hair and a rather large, tall young man with a “balla” cap on.
“Why aren't you out there, man?” said the short guy.
“Dude, my knee fuckin hurts, I don't know why,” responded the big guy.
Ding-ding! I heard the bell. It was time to rumble. As the audience clapped at the end of the song and there was a moment of clarity, I asked the guy, “hey, so what's wrong with your knee?”
“I dunno, I must've gotten hurt in the pit or something.”
“Dang that sucks, dude....” A vein in my head pops out. “Hey...can I pray for you?”
“Uh...sure.”
“Cool.” I quivered as I put my hand on his knee. “Lord Jesus, right now I...command this pain to go right now in the name of Jesus. Thank you, Jesus, for revealing your love to...” I looked at him.
“Tony.”
I showed off my dimples, letting out a tender puff of air from my nostrils. “For Tony, Lord. Your word says to pray 'on earth as it is in heaven', and we know there's no knee pain in heaven. So Lord, we command this pain to go right now in the name of Jesus.”
I took my hand off. His pushed his lips together as he reached out with one hand behind my back and around the side. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem dude.” He looked the other way, seeing his friend there. “Check it out,” I said in a slightly louder voice, “how's it feel?”
He stomped his foot on the ground. He hesitated. He stomped his foot on the ground again, and a third time after that. “Holy shit,” he said, “the pain's gone! What the....holy shit!”
My eyes lit up. “Dude, you just got healed! Wow! Praise God!”
“I know....” His mouth was gaping open. He stumbled into a bear-hug. The clunk-clunk of a reality shift could be heard in his mind as the band started their next song. I was the first one out on the floor.

Lettuce In

I don't know how the idea of Treasure Hunting first began. A church in Redding, California started going out a few years back, and it's seemed to have caught on worldwide. I really thought that the dignity and honor of evangelism was finally being restored to the church. That is, until last week.

It's a perfect set up, really. All one has to do is sit down with a few friends and ask the Lord for some clues. It could be anything: an apple, red trousers, blue blouse, green turtleneck, suspenders, a manikin wearing the bare essentials, a woman with a cowboy hat, anything! The first thing that comes into the mind's eye, releasing a shrill down your spine, the clue that induces pride at just-how-creative-I-am-but-not-really-so-creative-because-it's-actually-God-speaking. That one. Write it down. Make a treasure map. Ask God for a location. Fred Meyer? Taco Bell? The local gay bar? Where does God want to reveal His love to His people? What diseases and infirmities does He want to heal today? Where does a man wild at heart fancy a novel adventure?

Waking up early on a given Saturday morning, I open up my text messages to the question “Are you gonna do some peter and john loving on people today?” Sam has a way with words, keepin' it real. I'm grateful for how well he seems to know what I'm thinking every day. It's like he has ESPN or something. My fingers punch out the reply, “ya I think im gonna”, and next thing I know I'm leaping off the couch, into my coat, and arriving at the church.

I slide into my chair with my empty treasure map. My eyes gaze off into space, then close, then alight. After some hasty scrawling, my paper says it all: meth addiction, medication, Luckies, John, red scarf, message in a bottle, lettuce in. Sometimes having a relationship with God is like watching Family Guy reruns. I, of course, volunteer to drive, and as the new team captain, select my eligible crew: Sam of course, a man I hardly know named John (ha), and his twelve-year-old son. All aboard!

John wants to go to Fred Meyer, and I figure they will probably lettuce in at their produce department. We make our way to a parking spot, shuffle out of the car, and I immediately begin scanning the parking lot. There may be employees here. There may be a giant dinosaur roaming the sidewalk. Hell, there may even be some hot girls walking around! But my Terminator eyes are already programmed to see only red scarves, people carrying lettuce under their arm, and older people that are obviously on their way out of the pharmacy. And of course wheelchairs, canes, and crutches. This goes without saying - injured people are just asking for it.

We pray for a few people here and there, nothing exciting happening yet. Last week two people got completely healed of pain in their body at the mall – our expectations are high! As we pass through the door, phasers out, ready to go kung-fu amongst the frozen pizza, I spot my prey: the woman with the red scarf. She was middle-aged, shopping for God-knows-what. She's a ways off, but she's my Divine Encounter, my Target of Love.

I approach with caution, “Uh, hi, is that a red scarf?”

“Yeah...”

“Nice! We're on a treasure hunt, and I have red scarf, look right there!”
“...Well I'm not gonna give it you...”

“Oh no no, sorry, this is a very different kind of treasure hunt. We're not looking for things, we're looking for people. We asked God to highlight certain things because He wants to bless His people that He loves, and you're God's treas-”

“Oh, I'm an atheist. You're talking to the wrong person.”

At this, she pushes her cart away from me. I stand in the same position, eyebrows up, stammering for words. How could I just let her go? I mean, she was the red scarf! Eventually I yell after her, “Well, can we pray for you for something anyway?”

“You need to get away from me, right now!”

I'm a frozen statue that wants nothing more than to come to life. “Okay,” I say, and start walking past her to the end of the aisle. As I pass her, she turns and begins talking again – evidently she wasn't done with me yet.

“I know what you're doing and what you stand for.”

“What?”

“You hate people. You wear your faith on your sleeve. You hate gay people. You hate gay marriage. You hate-”

“What? No we don-”

She puts up her hand, “Don't. I know what you're about and what you believe.” She closes her eyes, her lips forcing the words forward into the air, sealing them in blood, “You hate people. You hate gay people. You hate gay marriage.”

For the moment, I have nothing to say. I guess I hate people. Even if I didn't before, I now did. A tag was now stuck to my Hollister shirt that said, “HELLO! My name is I Hate Gay People. I Hate Gay Marriage.” All sorts of thoughts cross my mind, just like the cross she puts up to me and my twelve-year-old companion with her index fingers as she walks off and tells the manager about our supposed preaching in their store, getting our whole party promptly kicked out of Fred Meyer. They “can't have that” there.

I went back to the church and cried that day. I was balled up in the corner of the corridor, wanting so badly to suck my thumb and have my mommy come and tell me it's gonna be okay. The nagging thought of “Where were you, God? Why did you let that happen?” had to be deflected over and over again. My friends huddled around me and held me, telling me how brave I was and how proud they were of me. I cried all the more. I was waiting for my time machine to come in that would've stopped me from jumping off that couch.

I cried that day. I cried for the lady. I cried for the American church. I cried for myself. I felt the tears of heaven, the tears of a creator that so desperately wants His children to know Him. I cried as God walked into a dance club, wrapping his warm arms around a man dressed in a pink, skin-tight shirt, piercings in his left ear. I cried as Jesus whispered in that ear that he's home, that he has a place in his Daddy's house, that he will never be abandoned or taken advantage of, and never has. I cried as the being that transcends the universe holds the world in his hands. I cried as the beautiful woman in the red scarf in Fred Meyer opened her heart to the reality of a non-existent God, those expressionless eyes softening, her lips curling into a cheeky grin. I laughed.