There are some nights that you never forget.

Ever.

This was one of them. We were walking down the dark dirt street illuminated by temperamental street lamps, the ocean brushing with the sand rhythmically to our right. Only five or so minutes from the base it definitely was not bush bush, incomparable to the adventures of the previous nights, in fact we were on a break. Every member of our team was a white westerner, not that it matters except to prove that very point, it doesn't matter, miracles happen with white people too, not just in Africa. The evening in its dusky glow was warm to the the touch with a cool breath of breeze on our faces. Perfect. Truly a perfect, star studded african night. We were a motley crew of visitors to the site for various reasons. Two leaders of another base, myself and my mother, three girls that we met in Pemba from all over the world and a 13 year old boy named Gary and his mothers friend who had brought him.

So anyways…

We got to the restaurant and sat at the back left at a wooden table with our backs to the incredible beach, the sounds of the ocean in our ears. The perfect night. I don't even remember what I ordered, tell the truth, but I know this much. Gary ordered the fish. Not that this was a new thing, he had had fish many times before being from Alaska and all so the following events don't make much sense. But I know what happened.

I was a recently qualified nurse. As a result, every cell of my brain was still ringing with the "warning signs" and "things to watch for" that had been brainwashed into us during training. I was two months into my acute nursing job on a break to do a missions trip. Every nurse in the world knows an anaphylactic shock when they see one. The tongue starts to swell, the throat also, closing up and then the lungs and all airways swell closed. Caused by a million different things but all causing one reaction - a fatal one. The only difference is the amount of grace time you have to do one of two things. 1) Get them to take a lot of antihistamine and hope it works quick enough (usually a rubbish plan) 2) Stab an adrenalin filled epi pen into their leg to reduce the swelling instantly. Without either of these options? 100% fatality rate. Every time.

So when my friend leant over and asked "do you have any antihistamine?" and i looked up, everything in me screamed and froze at the same time. Diagonally across from me, Gary was not only demonstrating a severe fish allergy, but it was happening at an alarming rate. Tongue swelling up we could already hear his windpipe closing. Rasping terrified breaths coming from his throat. I did the math, this was rapid onset, he had about 3 mins. The base was five mins away, I have no epi pen, he is already too swollen to swallow any pills.

This boy was going to die.

Right then, right there at the idyllic beach side restaurant, on a missions trip and yet not even in the machete wielding bush bush. By all accounts afterwards, none of them heard my instantaneous inner monologue but could read it as my face drained of all conceivable color as I realised what I was looking at. Years of nurse training for every eventuality had led me to this moment. There was nothing I could do. Nothing.

"Pray!" My friend yelled and we all started praying in tongues furiously and loudly, caring not about whether the waiters of another faith would be bothered or not. At the top of our lungs we commanded this thing to reverse, Gary now terrified unable to gasp a single lungful of air, me watching every scenario we had played out at nurse school panning out in front of me. This was not how it was meant to go. I was meant to be able to do something. This boy was not meant to die.

And then.

Gary sucked in a huge lungful of air and then another, sucking at the air like a fish out of water. He stuck his tongue out and infront of our eyes the swelling reduced and then went to nothing. The three minute mark had been reached. 'Three minutes and he will be dead'. Three minutes and…sitting infront of us was a perfectly normal, healthy, breathing 13yr old, looking slightly stunned but alive none the less. "I don't think I am going to have the rest of the fish" he chuckled sheepishly before leaving the table to wash his face. My friend turned to me. Until that moment I hadn't realised how frozen I had been "how bad was that?" I shook my adrenalin filled head "he should have been dead…he should have been dead…"

Three years of nursing had taught me one thing.

God's world is a gloriously upside down one.

It was excitement more than anything that filled my head as I bought the paints and plastic handled brushes that would serve as the tools of the evening. The thought that some may never have held a brush, never been asked to express what they were feeling with no restraint except the borders of a page, never received a gift created just for them.

I was asked to come to the homeless cafe that runs every week where swathes of people come in off the street and get a cooked meal, clothes and a roof over their head. It was a bustling melee of people surrounded too by the beautiful, raw youth of the YMCA who regularly come to help their new found church friends. I had a good idea of what I had planned, we had discussed it at length; don't be too long, just show one or two paintings, there will likely be disturbances. But as worship started in the little back room and I set up the tables and finally my own small canvas, I had no idea whether I was walking into a dream or a soon to be carnage of paint and distraction.

As the musicians played I began to settle my heart, to focus the eyes of my heart and mind back on the one I love, on the God who has asked me to run after Him in this upside down world, the one to whom it is a delight to give everything and do anything. As I began to centre of Him, the paint flowed and my brush eased over canvas, blue and white, smooth and rippled, a hand coming and touching the surface of water. People were starting to drift in now, curiosity getting the better of them, asking me intermittently what I was painting and why. I didn't really know, I often don't until it is done. By the time I had finished and looked up again there were almost 35 people in the room, a great mixture of volunteers, youth from the YMCA and those from all walks of lives who had found themselves with no place to live. I looked again at what I painted and heard His still small voice whisper "turn it on its end". As I turned the painting around I saw what it was, not simply a hand stilling water, but now a hand calling calm to the vertical, distorted, rippling mirror of untruths and beliefs long held about identity and who they were. God was bringing His truth and calm to the lies once believed.

I shared about the painting and people were listening intently. I then took out a canvas, explained it and showed it round and people were enwrapped 'show us another one'! and another, and another, until six canvases had made the rounds and yet still, their attention was focused on me, the paintings, the paint. I explained the plan for the evening. Everyone had been given the name of another in the room, they were to paint a picture of what they felt God was saying to that person. Simple.

Warily I pointed people to the paint, realising full well that there were not enough brushes for this many people. It was going to be finger paint carnage, I thought in my orderly brain. But each person took their place, a paper and busily, studiously started to create, paint, express their hearts. Not one drop of paint hit the floor, not one person caused a scene or was distracted from the task in hand. I am unsure whether I or the weekly volunteers were more stunned. As I walked round the room I began to see. Pictures of water, rivers, trees, hearts, stars. Pictures showing love and friendship, breakthrough and bright color. Pictures of destiny and dreams and hope. Regardless of skill and ability, what was emerging from fingers covered with rainbows of paint was outstanding. God was on the move.

Before long we called it to order and invited people to explain what they had painted if they wanted to. Reluctant at first, one came up to share and then sheepishly gave her painting to her designated partner who beamed in the corner. Another volunteered and explained his painting of a mountain surrounded by darkness with a bright light crashing in from above. More eager now, people began to volunteer, each explaining what they had created before delighting in giving it to the recipient. Each recipient treasuring their gift and looking more valued and focused than they did when they arrived. More paintings came, trees growing by a river of peace and calm. Hearts and stars, how much God loves them and what He thinks of them. Pictures depicting the war of life and all the struggles and a hand coming in from heaven pulling them out of it. Before long the entire room, almost, had received their pictures and the atmosphere was awesome.

It was then that one of the leaders realised a couple of people were without paintings. "Quick, whisk one up for them" I was told. Pressure on, three seconds to pull one together in I pull a piece of paper and literally draw two squiggles. A kindergartener could have done better, and I am not being modest. I apologetically went over to the lady I had painted it for and explained. "This is a tornado (pointing to a squiggle) and this here is a path (yet another squiggle). The bible says that God works all things together for good for those who love Him. Some things in your life feel like storms or tornados but I see them carving a path and that God is using them to help determine a good path with Him into your future and destiny". I step back and the woman and her nephew start freaking out. "Oh my gosh!!! We have been saying all week how my life is like a tornado! How it all feels like a tornado! Oh my gosh this is going in the living room in the centre of the room to remind us!"

Stunned I go to paint for the other girl, the final person in the room with no painting.

This beautiful one is about 16, pregnant and with a pretty short attention span, sitting looking curiously at me as I paint. Her painting was similar to one I had done before, a blue back ground with a person, arms outstretched at the base and a dove descending. As I asked Holy Spirit what it was all about I heard Him say "explain to her about jewish adoption". Seriously?? I went over and tried to explain as quickly as I could before i lost her attention but no need, her ears were fixed on me. "Children born to their parents are those parents kids. But in Jewish culture, that child goes through all their growing up, matures and learns everything the parents have to teach them. At the point where the parent feels they are ready, they have learned and represent the family, the parent legally adopts them into the family. This is a picture of when Jesus was baptised, when God adopted His son into His family, showing the world He was not only HIs natural son but that He chose Him too." She took the picture looking perplexed and I was concerned she had no idea what I had just said and then she left. Two minutes later the leader came running over to me "do you understand what you just said to her?" I was worried I had said something wrong but before i had chance to reply the girl was back, eyes bright and waving the painting "I was adopted!" she cried excitedly "When you told me that…I was adopted…God was adopted!!!"

Needless to say I was undone.

Needless to say God has just proved His strategy for Romania with me. Bring it on Jesus!