Hello World Changer!
The seven of us are holding hands like a string of paper dolls, winding through the dense crowd at the Larissa Bazaar in the heart of Greece. We don't dare let go. Ahead of us is the mayor, surrounded by reporters, photographers, and an entourage of city officials. Behind us is an endless sea of people.
Drums echo through the streets. The strings of a lyre seem to call from another century. For a moment it feels as if ancient and modern Greece are occupying the same space.
The Story of Larissa
The Larissa Bazaar is a yearly celebration of all things Greek. Villagers come into the city to buy linens, cookware, bedding, and other treasures for the prika, the traditional hope chest prepared for young women before marriage. Merchants arrive from across Europe and North Africa with crafts, clothing, shoes, purses, and household goods.
And then there is the food.
Everywhere you look, rabbits, pigs, lambs, and goats are slowly roasting over open coals. Halva sits glowing golden brown beneath the lights, wobbling gently in shallow pans. The smells, sounds, and movement are almost overwhelming.
Tonight, we are weaving through the crowd to sit at the mayor's table. An honor none of us expected.
Larissa was once home to one of the largest and most vibrant marketplaces in the ancient Greek world. When archaeologists uncovered a massive ancient theater beneath the city and restoration efforts brought new attention to Larissa's history, the city rediscovered a forgotten source of pride.
The mayor saw an opportunity. He envisioned bringing the ancient bazaar back to life, not as a museum piece, but as a living event that would attract visitors from around the world.
His vision was ambitious. He believed Larissa could once again become a destination city and a thriving center of commerce and culture. The bazaar became one of the centerpieces of that vision.
And somehow, seven women from the United States ended up becoming part of his story.
Prophecy Unleashed
We called ourselves The Magnificent Seven after the old western movie. We were on a two-and-a-half-week trip through Greece and Ukraine, volunteering our time to pray, teach, encourage, and serve wherever doors opened. We visited homes, churches, universities, women's centers, and even gypsy camps.
I was there to teach prophetic art alongside my mentor Beverly and to encourage art students that they have a voice. Art is not created merely for art's sake. Art can shape culture. Art can change the world.
The only reason we were in Larissa at all was because I insisted.
I wanted to see the bazaar.
And I wanted to visit my friends Voula and Kosta.
Kosta happened to be friends with the mayor.
When the mayor heard that seven women were coming all the way from America specifically to see the bazaar, he insisted on meeting us. So there we were, sitting in the mayor's office while his press secretary carefully took notes.
She asked each of us our names, where we were from, and why we had come to Larissa. Beverly began asking the mayor questions about the city, his hopes, and the challenges he faced. He spoke about his love for Larissa, his desire to see it prosper, and the upcoming election.
Then the conversation shifted.
Beverly began speaking prophetically to him.
I've watched Beverly minister in churches, villages, and places most people will never visit. Yet somehow standing in a mayor's office in Greece while she spoke about God's plans for Larissa felt especially surreal.
The mayor's expression changed. His smile widened. His eyes began to shine. At one point he started laughing. Not a polite laugh, but a deep belly laugh that seemed to surprise even him. Meanwhile, the press secretary looked increasingly uncomfortable.
After about thirty minutes, as we prepared to leave, the mayor stopped us.
"You have a gift," he told Beverly. "I want you to meet my wife. Will you ladies be my guests at the bazaar tonight?"
Of course we accepted.
The Rise of the Seven
Afterward we met Voula and Kosta for lunch at a restaurant called The Ugly Duck. As we told them about our meeting with the mayor and the invitation to his table, Kosta began laughing.
"You don't understand what's happening," he said.
He explained that the mayor's greatest achievement in the eyes of the people was bringing back the bazaar. In his mind, seven American women had traveled all the way from the United States just to see it. We were proof that his vision was working. We were evidence that the bazaar was attracting visitors from around the world.
Suddenly everything made sense.
Not long after, reporters showed up at the restaurant. Cameras appeared. Interviews happened. Photos were taken.
That evening, Voula handed us the local newspapers.
There we were.
Front page.
Then she handed us another newspaper.
Front page again.
One headline read, "They didn't go to Marseille. They didn't go to Paris. They came to Larissa."
The second article detailed where we ate lunch and what we ordered.
Apparently, we were newsworthy.
For the next several days reporters followed us everywhere. Restaurant owners wanted us to visit so they could receive publicity. Shop owners invited us in. Photographers appeared around corners. We would turn around and find cameras pointed in our direction.
We had somehow become a marketing campaign.
Hungry for More
That evening, we arrived at the mayor's table in the middle of the bustling bazaar. The table stretched nearly the length of the tent and was filled with city officials, advisors, council members, and regional leaders. The mayor sat in the center, and Beverly was seated directly across from him. I sat beside Beverly, while the mayor's wife sat across from me.
The mayor's wife was fascinated by Beverly.
"How do you know these things?" she kept asking.
Beverly patiently explained that she wasn't predicting the future or reading fortunes.
"God wants to speak with people," she said. "If we want to hear Him, we will."
The mayor's wife seemed unconvinced. I think she preferred the fortune-teller explanation.
Just then several men carried an entire roasted goat to the table.
Head included.
I watched the faces of the Magnificent Seven.
There was shock.
There was horror.
There was mild panic.
Personally, I don't particularly enjoy goat either, so I wasn't exactly thrilled. But there was no way I was missing this moment. Somewhere between the roasted goat, the politicians, the reporters, and the bazaar, something much bigger was happening.
Eventually the mayor looked at Beverly and asked her to speak to his wife.
Beverly turned toward her and said, "God sees your hunger. He wants to speak with you. He's giving you the desires of your heart. When you dream at night, He is showing you things He wants you to know. Pay attention to your dreams."
The person sitting beside her immediately wanted to hear something too.
Then another.
And another.
Soon people all around the table were waiting.
Before long, all seven of us were praying, encouraging people, listening, translating, and sharing what we felt God was saying. Conversations were happening everywhere. People who had come expecting a political dinner suddenly found themselves having deeply personal conversations about God.
As I watched, I felt both encouraged and saddened.
Encouraged because people were genuinely hungry. They wanted to know if God was real. They wanted to know if He saw them. They wanted to know if their lives mattered.
But I was saddened because many of them misunderstood what they were experiencing.
They thought Beverly was a psychic.
A fortune teller.
Someone with special powers.
What they didn't understand was that God was the one doing the talking.
What they didn't understand was that this invitation wasn't exclusive. It wasn't reserved for prophets, pastors, or especially gifted people. It was available to them too.
Anyone willing to listen.
Anyone hungry enough to ask.
The Bigger Story
For the rest of our time in Larissa, the newspapers continued writing stories about us. The reporters kept taking pictures. Restaurants enjoyed their free publicity. The mayor enjoyed the attention. And for a brief moment, we enjoyed our ten minutes of fame.
But looking back, that's not the story I remember.
The reporters, the headlines, the politicians, and our brief moment of celebrity all faded away.
What I remember is watching tears form in people's eyes when they realized God knew their names.
I've learned that God is not confined to churches, seminaries, Bible colleges, or sacred buildings. He meets hungry people wherever they are.
Sometimes He shows up in a sanctuary.
Sometimes He shows up at a crowded bazaar in the middle of Greece, beside a roasted goat and a table full of politicians.
And when He does, people never forget it.
Has God ever shown up in a place that surprised you?
