WHEN THE FIRE FELL

How God Redeemed My Voice and Calling

“But He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”

—2 Corinthians 12:9 (NIV)

If you’ve read my last devotion When God Stepped In, then you know about my valley. You’ve walked with me through India, through weakness, shame, and a hospital bed where I hovered near death. You know the crushing pain of rejection and the miracle of healing that followed. But what you may not yet know—what I want to tell you now—is what came after.

Because the story didn’t end in sorrow. It moved on to redemption. It moved on to Jamaica.

I was no longer dying, but I was still learning how to live again. I had survived—but I hadn’t yet thrived. And deep in my heart, I didn’t believe I had anything of value to offer. I still saw myself through the lens of India—frail, failed, forgotten.

That began to change at Pinecrest Bible Training Center, tucked away in the quiet mountains of New York. That school became holy ground for me.

I encountered the Lord in ways I never had before. In chapel services that felt like heaven brushing earth. In classroom moments when the Spirit would settle like a cloud. In the middle of the night, I would whisper to God from my dorm bed, “I don’t want a stage, Lord—I just want You.”

It was there, in the hush of midnight prayer, that I finally whispered, “Lord, if You have a purpose for my life… I surrender.” I didn’t yet see what He saw in me—but I was willing to be made willing.

And it was there that Wade Taylor, my spiritual mentor and a father in the faith, took a quiet, watchful interest in my life. He saw something in me that I couldn’t yet grasp. I’d sit with him in his office as he gently spoke truth and destiny into the hidden places of my heart. It was Wade who laid hands on me and specifically prayed for two things: that God would give me the gift to speak from the heart, and the gift to write words that would reach the church. I will never forget his voice, the authority in his tone, or the holy weight of his prayers.

My family came from ministry roots—deep ones. If I went into ministry, I would be the third generation minister on both sides of my family. My dad—a powerful, anointed preacher whose sermons could shake the room—was raised by godly parents and a mother of rare spiritual stature. She was not only a pastor but a Bible school teacher, full of wisdom and grace. And my own mother—oh, how her life radiated holiness. She and my grandmother were the two most godly women I’ve ever known. Their prayers carried weight in heaven.

But the legacy didn’t stop there.

My mother’s father was once an Amish man—simple, quiet, and bound to tradition—until Jesus broke through. He left the Amish church and became a Spirit-filled on fire preacher whose ministry impacted many. He was known far and wide as “the preacher of love”—a gentle giant of compassion, whose words melted hearts and whose presence made people feel seen, safe, and deeply loved.

So yes… the call to ministry was in my blood. But I didn’t want to simply inherit a ministry—I wanted to be called.

And it was in that Bible school, through the flame of holy intimacy, that I finally surrendered.

So when the opportunity came to go to Jamaica on a preaching team, I hesitated. Memories of India still haunted me. My mind flooded with doubts: What if I freeze again? What if I stutter? What if I fail—again?

We flew into Montego Bay and were assigned to various regions. I was paired with Sergey, a brother from Russia who prayed with passion. Our assignment was to minister in Hamilton Mountain near Ocho Rios. As we approached the church that night, walking up the winding dirt road, anxiety gripped me.

The enemy whispered, “You’re not a preacher. You don’t have the gift. You’ll crumble again just like you did in India.”

The sun dipped low as we climbed the hill. I could see the little church growing larger with every step. My knees felt like jelly. My stomach churned. But something deeper was rising—something holy.

The building was packed. People were everywhere—crowding into the sanctuary, down the stairways, filling the entry, even spilling into the parking lot. In Jamaica, the church windows are covered in metal bars, not glass, and I could see faces peering in through every opening. A massive speaker sat on the roof, and from nearby homes, neighbors gathered on lawn chairs, listening in.

They were waiting… for me.

And I panicked.

God, I am not Your man of faith and power. I’m still just the boy who failed in India. I don’t belong here.

But in that moment, I remembered the prayers. The tears. The whispers from my bed at Pinecrest. The nights Wade Taylor spoke into my soul. The God who had met me in my darkest hour was not done. He had brought me here—not to shame me—but to show His strength in my surrender.

“Pray for me,” I whispered to Sergey.

“God will bless you, brother,” he smiled.

The worship ended. The local pastor Bishop Farrell stood and introduced me with booming joy: “Evangelist Steve is here tonight—a mighty man of God!”

An evangelist? Hardly. Mighty? Not even close.

I walked to the pulpit, heart pounding. I opened my mouth, unsure of what would come out.

And then… it happened.

I said the name Jesus—and fire filled my bones.

The Holy Spirit rushed through me like a river. My tongue, once slow and unsure, was now loosed with boldness and love. My voice echoed with authority I knew wasn’t mine. I didn’t preach—I burned.

People leaned in. Eyes filled with tears. Hearts opened.

That night, when I gave the altar call, 20 to 25 souls flooded to the front, weeping and repenting. And over the next two weeks in Jamaica, I had the joy of leading nearly 100 people to Christ.

But it wasn’t just about numbers. It was about a moment—that moment—when the Lord whispered:

“Do you remember India?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“That was your strength. Now do you see Jamaica? That… is My strength in you. Never forget where your help comes from.”

I’ll never forget those words.

He had to strip me of my strength before I could carry His. He wanted me clothed in humility, not draped in the garments of pride.

And I’ve never stood behind a pulpit since without praying, “Lord, if You don’t go with me, I’m not going. My dependence is upon you!”

Months later, I returned to Jamaica—this time with my father—to preach a convention. The hunger was electric. People stopped us in the streets asking for prayer. One little boy came forward during the altar call, tears running down his cheeks. “I want Jesus,” he cried.

For him alone, the trip would have been worth it.

From that unforgettable night in Jamaica in 1992 until now, in 2025, God has been immeasurably faithful. He has taken me farther than I ever dreamed I could go—opening doors, healing hearts, and letting me carry His Word across nations. I’ve written, preached, and poured my heart out to the hurting and hungry, but every step has been His doing, not mine. I give Him all the glory. Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised!

Dear friend… maybe you’ve stood on your own “India” soil. Maybe your voice has faltered. Maybe shame clings like a second skin, whispering that you’re disqualified. Maybe the weight of past failure still presses on your chest like a stone.

But hear me—please hear me:

Jamaica is coming.

You see, failure doesn’t get the final word. Silence doesn’t cancel your calling. Weakness doesn’t void your anointing. God is still writing your story.

He is the God who met me in a hospital room, breathless and near death—

And the same God who met me on a mountaintop in Jamaica, when my voice returned and fire fell.

He’s the One who allowed me to fall, not to shame me—but to shape me.

To strip away my self-reliance.

To sever the pride that could ruin me.

To clothe me—not in performance—but in Him.

He had to empty me before He could fill me.

He had to silence me before He could anoint my lips with words that carry weight.

He had to let me fail so I would never again trust in my own strength.

And now—He’s coming for you.

He wants to anoint your lips again.

He wants to baptize your heart with fire.

He wants to awaken the gift inside you that’s been sleeping far too long.

You may not feel like the one God would spotlight. And your knees may still shake as you inch toward what He’s asked of you.

But that’s okay.

God doesn’t anoint the proud or the polished.

He anoints the yielded.

He breathes on the willing.

He empowers the trembling heart that says, “Yes, Lord—even through my weakness.”

So say yes.

Say yes when the fear is loud.

Say yes when the wounds still sting.

Say yes when you feel like the least likely to be used.

Because in the Kingdom of God, the least likely often become the first chosen.

Let Him redeem your India.

Let Him call you up your own Hamilton Mountain.

Let Him write a story so beautiful it brings tears—not of sorrow, but of joy unspeakable.

You’re not too late.

You’re not too broken.

And you are not disqualified.

This is not the end.

It’s only the beginning, dear one. The best is yet to come!

With Love,

Steve Porter

www.morningglorydevo.com

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