Blessed Are The Feet - Rebecca’s Story

In South Carolina, there’s a social dance called contra dancing. It’s lively, fast-paced, and full of laughter—a mix of bluegrass, folk rhythm, and the kind of community energy that makes people drive hours just to be part of it. For the past several months, Rebecca has been quietly immersing herself in that world. Not preaching. Not handing out tracts. Just showing up, week after week, moving with the rhythm, learning names, and earning trust.

At first, it seemed slow. For nearly five months she went alone, dancing with strangers who didn’t know her faith or her mission. But over time, walls began to fall. She discovered that within the community were a few scattered Christians—believers who loved the people around them but struggled to know how to live out their faith in a scene often dominated by polyamory, hookup culture, and spiritual confusion.

Rebecca began gathering those few believers into prayer. First in quiet conversations, then in a small Zoom group. They started interceding for their friends on the dance floor, asking God to move in hearts that had never known His love.

Then the warfare began.

One Thursday night, she attended a dance and was given a free ticket to a special weekend event. She took it as a sign from the Lord to go. But everything that could go wrong did. The next morning, she was in a car accident—no injuries, but enough damage to drain her resources and shake her confidence. A dozen other small frustrations piled up, each one poking an old wound.

When we talked afterward, I told her, “Rebecca, do you see what happened? Satan stabbed you in every wound you’ve ever carried—responsibility, being chosen, belonging. He went straight for your tender spots because he knew where you were heading.”

That dance weekend wasn’t just another social event. It was a gathering filled with lostness—yoga circles, open marijuana use, spiritual searching of every kind. Exactly the kind of place Jesus would walk into.

And that’s where Rebecca was supposed to be.

The night before the accident, two friends— let’s call them Sara and John —stayed with her. Sara is a a follower of Jesus and John is not. After John went to bed, Rebecca and Sara prayed together, interceding for him and for the community. The next morning, John asked with curiosity, “Did you guys have some kind of after-party?”

Rebecca smiled. “Well, I guess you could say that. We were praying.”

“Why didn’t you invite me?” he asked.

That small moment said it all. The light had touched something in him—maybe just enough to stir hunger, even if it was a hunger because he was afraid of missing something significant.

Even in the hardship, God was weaving provision. When Rebecca realized she couldn’t afford to attend the next dance weekend, a believer offered to buy her ticket. Then an unbeliever—wanting her there—paid for her Airbnb. God used both sides of the line to keep His daughter on mission.

That’s how the Kingdom works. Light and darkness collide, but God keeps His ambassadors exactly where He wants them.

I told her, “The spiritual attack is a sign you’re doing the right thing.”

Rebecca’s story reminds me that we don’t just talk about lostness—we enter it. We walk into the rooms others avoid. We dance under the same lights as people who don’t yet know the Light of the world. And we pray.

She’s not there to condemn anyone. She’s there to love them into awareness that there is a God who sees them, who knows their names, who longs to set them free.

For those of us watching from the outside, it’s tempting to think, “That’s not my kind of mission field.” But the truth is, every community has its own dance floor—its own rhythm where lost people gather, searching for belonging.

Rebecca just happens to hear the music.

So when you think of her, pray. Pray for courage and protection, for wisdom and discernment, and for the light of Christ to break through in that world of rhythm and color. Pray for Sara, for John, and for the dozens more who are still watching from the edges, waiting to be invited into the prayer “after-party.”

Spiritual warfare is real. It doesn’t always look like exorcisms or shouted prayers—it often looks like perseverance, joy, and kindness in the face of resistance.

Rebecca has stepped onto the dance floor armed with nothing but love, intercession and the habits of disciple-making. And that, my friends, is what it looks like when light refuses to sit out the next song.