Love Abundantly Ministries

Y’all. Have you ever taken a flight that was more than half a day? This flight for me was the third of its kind in 2025. LAX to Brisbane—14 hours packed into a cabin full of strangers, all of us enduring the relentless hum of the engines as we cross the Pacific Ocean. I had just settled in my routine, half-awake, barely keeping my eyes open. I was trying to relax and focus on the movie playing in front of me, letting the minutes slip by. But five hours in, everything changed.

The intercom crackled to life, cutting through the hum of the plane’s engines.

“Attention, we are looking for a medical professional on board.”

I barely registered the announcement, my thoughts still heavy with sleep. “Someone else will go,” I thought. But just as I started to settle back into my seat, the man sitting next to me shook my arm.

“Hey… didn’t they just call for a nurse? Aren’t you a nurse?” he asked, his voice urgent.

It was then I realized I couldn’t ignore it. My heart raced, and before I knew it, my feet were moving.

I got up, groggy and disoriented, stumbling toward the back of the plane. As I passed the aisles, another voice piped up—a young woman who’d also heard the call.

“I’m a nurse too,” she said, half-awake but ready to help.

We didn’t know each other’s names. We didn’t even know what we were walking into. But somehow, in that moment, we both knew this was no ordinary flight. In the middle of the plane, the flight attendants led us to an elderly woman—87 years old, unresponsive, slumped in her seat. Her family was gathered around, looking terrified. The situation was dire. She wasn’t breathing normally, her pulse weak and irregular. Her skin was cold, her blood pressure dangerously low. She wasn’t sick—she was fading.

And we were somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Rerouting to Hawaii was not an option.

The other nurse, still trying to gather the emergency supplies. Meanwhile, I hovered over the woman, my mind racing. What could I do? I had nothing—no IVs, no equipment, no monitoring tools. All I had was my knowledge and the instinct to help.

I checked everything I could—her pulse, her blood pressure, her breathing. It was low, dangerously low. Her family was frantic, trying to feed me any piece of information they had, anything that could help. But we were truly on our own. There were no emergency services nearby, no place to land, no way to reroute. We had to figure this out ourselves, in a metal tube hurtling through the sky.

The other nurse returned with a small kit of supplies. She handed me some equipment, but it was clear we didn’t have what we needed to stabilize her.

I looked at the woman—her eyes closed, skin pale, unresponsive—and I felt something stir deep inside me. A moment of clarity. There was one thing I could do that no kit could offer.

“Can I pray with you?” I whispered to the woman. Knowing she wouldn’t reply. 

The words slipped out before I had a chance to question them. In that moment, I knew there was nothing else I could do but call on the power of the Great Physician. I didn’t have the right tools or a doctor on the ground, but I had faith.

I gently placed my hands on her chest, and I began to pray. I asked God to heal her, to send His angels to surround her. My voice started to grow louder, not out of urgency, but out of desperation and belief. I was calling on something far greater than me. The others around me had started to stir in their seats, some waking up to the sound of my prayer.

The response was instant.

As soon as I lifted my hands, her eyes fluttered open.

I held my breath. Her breathing steadied. Her skin warmed up, and her blood pressure began to rise. I checked the monitor—115/73.

It was nothing short of miraculous. Slowly, she started becoming more aware, her eyes locking with mine. Still not speaking. She reached for her neck and pulled out a small cross pendant. She smiled, her eyes filled with a peaceful recognition of what happened.

She didn’t have to say anything. I knew in that moment we had been part of something profound.

Two hours later, she stabilized. We moved her to business class, laying her down with a blanket tucked around her. I prayed over her one more time, asking for peace and safety as she drifted off to sleep. Her family was at ease now, grateful, eyes filled with wonder.

She called us her “angels.”

I could hardly believe what had just happened. All the frantic moments—the low blood pressure, the frantic scramble for supplies, the vomit I wiped away off her face with my sleeve so she wouldn’t choke—it was all worth it. And the people around me, the strangers who had pitched in to help however they could, were part of the miracle too.

God had worked in the most unexpected of ways. I had stepped onto this flight with no idea of what I’d be facing, but God had orchestrated everything. From the timing of the announcement to the moment of healing, it was clear to me: He was there, guiding us all along the way.

It wasn’t just a medical mission I was going to. It was proof of a mission life of faith. And it started in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, with a miracle in the sky. What I thought would be a routine journey turned into a divine encounter—a moment where heaven met earth at 35,000 feet. God had gone before me, preparing not only the mission but my heart. As Jeremiah 29:11 reminds us, “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” This was no coincidence. Every delay, every conversation, every heartbeat was orchestrated by the One who sees the end from the beginning.

It was in the cabin of that plane—far above the clouds—that I witnessed a miracle unfold. Not just healing in the physical sense, but healing in faith, in obedience, in trust. I wasn’t just bringing medicine—I was bringing hope, because Christ in me was the hope of glory (Colossians 1:27). And in that moment, I realized: we don’t wait to arrive on the mission field to begin the mission. The mission begins wherever God places us, even in the sky, even in a seat we didn’t choose, even in turbulence we didn’t expect.

Faith is not confined to a church pew or a clinic overseas. Faith walks into airports, boards planes, speaks life over strangers, and believes that God can still part skies the way He once parted seas. This wasn’t just a mission trip—it was a reminder that when we live surrendered, every step becomes sacred, every flight becomes an altar, and every heartbeat echoes the purpose of God.