Throughout the centuries, there have been small pockets of believers who dared to believe that God still visits His people with power. From the days of the apostles to the quiet movements of revival hidden in convents, fields, and prayer meetings, the Holy Spirit has never been entirely silent. Even in the dim seasons of church history, there were always those who knocked at midnight and found that the Lord of the house still answered.
Jesus told the story of a man who went to his friend’s home at midnight to ask for bread. At first, the friend resisted, saying the hour was too late and the household was asleep. Yet, because of persistence, the man finally rose and gave him what he asked for (Luke 11:5–8). Just afterward, Jesus declared, “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you” (v. 9). He ended the teaching by promising, “How much more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask him!” (v. 13). The parable reminds us that even before the “latter rain” outpouring of the last days, there have always been those who refused to stop knocking. The Lord “got up,” as it were, because someone was hungry for the Bread of Heaven. I see that God, who has a perfect time for everything, will answer the cry of the persistent one out of love, maybe even before the appointed time.
All through Scripture we see a divine pattern. On the day of Pentecost, 120 believers gathered in an upper room, waiting and asking. Acts 2 says that “suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled all the house.” Tongues of fire rested upon them, and “they were all filled with the Holy Ghost and began to speak with other tongues as the Spirit gave them utterance.” Centuries later, John Wesley wrote of his heart being “strangely warmed.” In Wales, at Azusa Street, and in countless small prayer meetings across the world, ordinary people have experienced extraordinary grace—because they asked. The same Spirit that descended in that upper room still moves wherever people hunger for Him.
I was one of those hungry ones, though I had barely begun asking. I was eleven years old at junior camp—just a little girl among little girls, more concerned with friendships and fun than with deep theology. That night, after a typical camp sermon—one of those made-for-children messages about receiving the Holy Spirit—the altar call was given. The humid Florida air was thick, and the sound of Pentecostal praying began its customary crescendo. Several of my friends and I had gone forward together. We knelt and sat around the wooden altars, some crying softly, others praying out loud in the uncertain but sincere way children do.
There was another girl, not really part of our circle, who had been hovering around us all week. She was quiet—almost painfully shy—but kind. None of us had excluded her, yet she always stayed on the edge of things, watching. That night she came and knelt beside me. After a few moments she turned and whispered so softly I almost missed it: “Will you pray for me?”
Her words pierced something deep inside me. I was only eleven. I had no idea how to pray for anyone else. A mixture of compassion and unworthiness welled up inside me. I began to cry—tears that came from somewhere beyond my understanding.
As I opened my mouth to tell her that I didn’t know what to say, the words that came out were not English at all.
Another language—three or four syllables repeated like waves—rose up from my heart and poured out of my mouth. I could not have stopped it if I had tried. The moment I spoke, joy, unlike anything I had ever known, flooded through me. It was the “unspeakable gift” Peter wrote about, the joy of being filled with the Spirit of God Himself. Acts 1:8 says, “You shall receive power when the Holy Ghost has come upon you” (paraphrased). I felt that power—not as thunder or lightning but as pure, overwhelming love.
The little girl beside me looked bewildered, perhaps even frightened, but I was lost in the Spirit. I remember lifting my hands, tears and laughter mingling together. The counselors let me be. I spoke in tongues for what seemed like an hour, waves of praise flowing over me. It was as though heaven had opened, and I was standing under its waterfall.
When at last the experience quieted, I felt lighter—cleaner somehow—as if every cell in my body was singing. I knew, even at eleven, that something holy had happened. I didn’t have the vocabulary for pneumatology or any other type of theological explanation; I simply knew Jesus was closer than breath. I had knocked on heaven’s door, asked for “bread at midnight” each night of camp, and then, without even realizing it, the Lord had “gotten up” to meet me there at that wooden altar and equipped me to do His work.
In the days that followed, I was different. I wanted to pray more, to read my Bible, to worship. I found myself boldly offering prayers for others. The verse “Out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water” (John 7:38) came alive to me. The “fountains of the deep” broke open for me that night at camp. Rivers began to flow, and they have never stopped.
Looking back, I realize how consistent God’s ways are. Whether it was the apostles in the upper room, believers in faraway revivals, or a little eleven-year-old girl at youth camp, the Spirit still answers those who knock. The baptism of the Holy Spirit is not reserved for the eloquent or mature. It is a gift for the asking—a promise fulfilled to the least of these who believe.
Even now, when I remember that altar and the tabernacle lights flickering on our tear-streaked faces, I think of Jesus’s words: “If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him.” The Father still rises to give bread to those who seek Him at midnight.
