The Woman in the Powder Blue Suit

Mexico City, 2007.

I’m in Mexico City sitting in a conference of about 300 pastors and their wives. Beverly is speaking. I just met Beverly a few months ago, but I knew that if I spent time with her, I would grow very quickly. She offered for me to come with her to Mexico City on a mission trip. I knew I wouldn’t be building houses or visiting orphanages. I would be tagging along with Beverly and her longtime friend Helen to churches and prayer meetings, where she would preach, encourage and prophesy to pastors and leaders. I chose to go to be in the atmosphere and learn from her. I figured I would just make sure she had water and carry her suitcase or something.

One of the meetings on the trip.

We just arrived from Phoenix today, and after a brief drop-off of our things at the hotel, we are now in our first meeting. After Beverly has been speaking for a while, Helen leans over and whispers in my ear, “When she is done speaking in a few minutes, you and I will hop up there on that stage with her and help her prophesy to everyone.”

WHAT!!!!

“Helen,” I whisper back, “what did you just say? I’ve never done that before. I don’t know how to prophesy. There’s no way I can do that.”

“You don’t have a choice. No one on a trip with Beverly is dead weight. You will be speaking and prophesying a lot on this trip. That’s how it works with her.”

I think about catching a taxi back to the airport, but I don’t know the name of the hotel, and that’s where my passport is.

Riding around Mexico City with Margie, Helen and Bev.

“Helen, I have never prophesied before. I’ll do it next time, after some training or something.” I try negotiating.

“Look, it’s not that difficult. Just remember God is your friend, and He is friends with all of these people. He wants to talk to us. So just get a few in your pocket. If you get stuck up there, you can pull one out,” Helen coaches me.

“What do you mean, have some in my pocket?” I ask. My heart is beginning to race at the thought of all of this.

“Just look around the crowd while you are sitting here until God points someone out to you, and then just ask Him about that person. He’ll give you something, and you just remember it and put it in your pocket. Just practice while we are sitting here.”

Helen turns back toward the stage, and I can tell by her face that she is done and no longer thinking about my big problem.

But I am panicked. Completely freaking out.

I remember a few months earlier when I was asked to simply announce the Bible study I was leading Sunday mornings at church. All I had to do was tell everyone that we met at 6:30 on Tuesday and give them my address. But I fumbled and couldn’t speak. I just stood there shaking inside, so the small group leader announced it for me. It was yet another failure in public speaking where I froze and had no control over my body.

I don’t know what could happen to me standing up there with Beverly and Helen in front of all these people, with microphones and the awkwardness of translation. What am I doing here? Why did I come? I was just coming to observe and carry suitcases, not to actually participate, and certainly not to prophesy! I’ve received prophetic words and witnessed it a few times, but never have I considered that I would be hearing God’s voice and relaying it to someone else, much less publicly, from a stage with a microphone.

The more I think about my predicament, the sicker I start to feel. I feel a mixture of fear, pride, preemptive humiliation and the need to run and hide. I know that if I walk out or refuse to go up there, I will probably never have the relationship with Beverly I want. She will figure I’m not ready for much growth and would rather hide in fear than face myself and grow.

I know I have a destiny and a purpose that I need to grow into. I know that now is the time for me to step into it and start living the life God has for me. I am tired of the fear. I am tired of worrying so much about what other people think of me.

I brought a super cool bohemian knitted shawl with me to Mexico that I bought at Dillard’s more than a year ago. So far, I haven’t been able to bring myself to wear it because I feel like it makes too much of a statement, and everyone will say, “Who does she think she is?” I dress very boring and consistently underdress, with a black T-shirt and jeans as my most comfortable outfit. Even as a child, I couldn’t wear flashy, dressy things that made me look pretty or like someone you might notice. I stayed hidden in my brother’s hand-me-downs.

My dad once bought me “A-smiles” that were lavender and a pair of bell-bottom Guess jeans with a brass buckle on the back. I shuddered every time I wore them because they were so stylish, and only someone who wanted to be noticed would wear something like that. My dad just wanted to give me something that would make all the other third-grade girls envy me. He wanted me to feel cool and like a popular girl. But I struggled to pull it off.

My mother bought me pretty dresses, and at home I would put them on and twirl around in front of my dad while he told me how beautiful I was. But I couldn’t manage to wear them to school. My mother would get furious with me and my stubborn insistence on wearing my brother’s Toughskins and terry cloth shirts. It was only on picture day that I would allow her to dress me up.

I carried this ridiculous, incomprehensible self-image problem into my teens. I hid inside an “I don’t give a crap, screw you” persona of combat boots, ripped tights, a black miniskirt and a giant chip on my shoulder underneath my flannel shirt. I felt comfortable in my grunge attire. Receiving negative attention was totally fine with me, but definitely not positive attention. There was no chance I would be caught dead in something pink, frilly, feminine or flattering.

Later in college, I continued the trend and hid inside an artist persona that said, “I have no one to impress or dress up for.” I was safe there inside my oversized, frumpy railroad overalls and clunky Dr. Martens.

Once I was a mom and began my art career, where dressing up for openings was mandatory, I started to dress more like a grown-up. But I still had to have big funky shoes and some kind of artsy, dark, nearly goth dress. I consistently bought clothes and didn’t have the courage to wear them. They sat in my closet until the next round of Goodwill, when they would be sent off with the tags still on.

I knew I needed to change on so many levels, and I constantly felt the constraint of my shortcomings. I couldn’t figure out the source of them or why they were there, but I knew I wasn’t truly free. I knew I lived with numerous fears and insecurities. So many times I wanted to move forward and just do what I knew I should do, but something inside of me stopped me.

Like right now.

Rather than sitting here trying to figure out how to escape, I should do what Helen told me to do and get a few people in my pocket.

I begin scanning the room to see if anyone stands out to me. I notice a woman in her late 20s with thick, clunky boots on. She looks stylish and cool to me. I ask God about her and focus on her boots. I get the impression that she is a strong warrior as a leader, full of faith and able to believe for the impossible. I see her boots as military boots. Her prayers are conquest. She takes ground for God in the spirit realm. I nickname her Boots and put her in my pocket, hoping when the time comes I can manage to put all of this together.

Next I notice a woman in a flowery dress that reminds me of a field of wildflowers. I ask God about her and see the field of flowers in a blaze of fire. I can see that her spirit is like a wildfire and it is contagious. Her excitement and passion for God spread like wildfire. I nickname her Wildfire and put her in my pocket.

Next I notice a man in a plaid shirt. He is sitting very straight and totally transfixed on every word Beverly says. When I ask God about him, I hear in my spirit right away, “I call him Peter. On this rock I will build my church.” I understand that he is a standard-bearer. I see him holding strong when adversity comes. I nickname him Peter, and he goes into my pocket with the other two.

Peter, the man in the plaid shirt.

I start to feel confident that maybe it is possible I can repeat my process while up on stage. I don’t feel confident that I can remember more than three, so I decide to stop stuffing my pockets.

Helen taps me. “We are up. Get ready.”

“How do you know that? Bev is still talking.”

“She gave me the nod. It means we need to walk up there so she has a smooth transition into prophesying.”

I am amazed at how these ladies work together. Seamless. In perfect unison.

My heart is beating so fast as I stand up and follow Helen toward where Beverly is still speaking. Nervous is the understatement of the year. I am shaking, sick to my stomach, lightheaded, wobbly-kneed and feeling like I am outside of my body. I keep running the tape of the contents of my pocket through my mind.

Boots. Wildfire. Peter.

They are all I can think about.

When we reach the stage, Beverly smiles at me and starts to model what prophesying looks like. She points to Boots and begins saying, “You are a fierce warrior in the kingdom of God. I see that when you pray, you are doing business with God. You have faith that can move mountains.”

She continues to prophesy to Boots all about her militant fierceness in the spirit.

I can’t believe what I am hearing.

Beverly is prophesying almost verbatim what I heard God tell me about Boots. I am disheartened that Bev stole one of the people in my pocket out of 300 people, but I am also encouraged. Maybe I actually can hear from God and do this.

Next Beverly points to the woman in the flowery dress, and my heart sinks.

“Your passion for God is contagious like a wildfire.”

And off she goes, prophesying to another person in my pocket. Again, she repeats what I already knew and had memorized about this person. I am astonished and desperate. I only have Peter left, and all my plans for milking my three while I am up there are vanishing.

Finally, Beverly points to Peter and begins describing him as a standard-bearer and how he can withstand adversity with the strength of God. She even says that, like Peter, God will build His church upon a rock during difficult times.

I stand there amazed and terrified.

Now what? What am I going to do?

Before I can formulate a plan, Beverly turns to me and hands me the microphone, and I stupidly reach out and grab it.

I stand there on the stage and beg God for mercy. Everyone is looking at me, and all I can think is, “I don’t belong here.”

I scan the audience and notice a woman in a powder-blue suit sitting alone. I point to her like Beverly had done, and she bravely stands up.

I have nothing, but I begin speaking anyway.

“You have been overlooked, passed by and even discarded.”

Oh my God, what am I saying! This is so insulting. I need to shut up right now!

I can see that the woman is stunned as the translator delivers my terrible message. But I continue.

“But God sees you as a beautiful, lovely flower in His garden. The kind of flower He could never miss. Your scent is lovely to Him, and He knows it draws others to Him. He loves you so incredibly much and hasn’t missed one of your tears, and there have been many.”

Now the lady is weeping, her face buried in her hands as she cries audibly.

I am horrified with myself. I don’t understand what is happening. I believe that what I am saying is shredding this poor woman, and I just want to die. The rest of what I say is a blur, and the rest of the time up on the stage is an out-of-body experience I can barely remember. I feel sick and distressed. Every time the microphone comes to me, I reluctantly repeat my process and try to tell people what I feel like God wants to say. The microphone is a hot potato. I give out only one word while Bev and Helen give out three to five each like prophesying machines.

When we are finished, I walk off the stage and stand dumbly in the crowd, feeling awkward and embarrassed. The woman in the powder-blue suit comes walking up to me with a translator, and my heart sinks with grief.

I think, this is my chance to apologize. I can explain to her that I have never done this before, that I didn’t belong up there and how sorry I am.

She begins speaking to me in Spanish through her tears. Then the translator begins explaining.

“She says she is a pastor’s wife, and they bought their tickets for this months ago. She says that her husband isn’t here because just this week he confessed to her that he was having an affair and is leaving their marriage and the ministry. She says she has cried all week about this and decided to come at the last minute. Her prayer and hope was just that God would see her and make it clear that He is still with her.”

Then the woman in the powder-blue suit grabs me and hugs me and cries in my arms.

All of my worry and sorrow turn to tearful joy. I can’t believe how much God loves both of us to give us this incredible experience.

God proved something to me right then and there. It doesn’t matter how much experience we have or how confident we are that we can hear His voice. All that matters is a willing, obedient heart that will at least open its mouth and try. He will fill our mouths. He will do the rest.

It is He who speaks through us.

He is so much bigger than our insecurities, fears and shortcomings. He functions beyond our pride and self-consciousness. God is God, and He loves His children and wants to speak lovingly to them.

I was forever changed by this moment and this woman in the powder-blue suit. I will never forget her lovely face for the rest of my life. I will never forget what God did for me that day.

I didn’t understand the deep and powerful work He did in me that week until later. I spoke on multiple occasions in all kinds of circumstances. I prayed in front of crowds, shared testimony and prophesied to hundreds. But it wasn’t until later, when I had another opportunity to speak publicly, that I realized my fear of public speaking was gone.

Praying with women during the trip.

My insecurities had left me. I no longer feared what other people thought of me.

When I returned from Mexico, I was a different person. I was much more confident and far more focused on what other people felt than on my own feelings of inadequacy.

That Sunday I went to church and felt different, but it didn’t hit me until I realized I was wearing the shawl I had brought to Mexico but never had the courage to wear. I had never worn this shawl since the day I bought it at Dillard’s. But that Sunday, without turmoil, fretting or taking it off right before I left the house, I was actually wearing it.

Effortlessly.

I didn’t even think about it.

Since that trip to Mexico, all of my clothing hang-ups have left me. I became a silhouette. A person God could use and move through. My appearance, or how I seemed to others, was no longer the most important thing. God using me and touching His people became my obsession.

My fears had lost their grip and no longer held me back. I was truly walking in freedom and able to be used by God.