Surfers Paradise began as a quiet stretch of coastline with golden sands and endless blue skies. Its earliest settlers were drawn by the promise of escape. They built simple homes, dreaming of a future far removed from the bustling cities they left behind. By the 1930s, the area had earned a reputation as a haven for those seeking rest and renewal.

The establishment of the Surfers Paradise Methodist Church in 1940 marked a turning point. Perched near the Pacific Highway, just off Hamilton Avenue, it was more than a building. Reverend Wilfred Slater, who opened the church, declared it “a beacon of hope for all who walk these shores.” Over the years, the church became a cornerstone of the community, weathering storms both literal and spiritual.

By the 1970s, the town was thriving. Surfers Paradise State School had relocated to the Isle of Capri, making room for the growing population. Tourists flocked to the beaches, and high-rise buildings began to shape the skyline. But amid the growth and glamour, the heart of Surfers Paradise remained its people—ordinary yet extraordinary individuals who quietly changed lives.

One such person was Julie Marks.

Julie’s Mission

Julie Marks wasn’t born in Surfers Paradise, but she came to call it home. A nurse by training, Julie had always felt drawn to healing. But after a series of personal tragedies, she left her job, searching for deeper meaning. Her journey led her to faith, and through faith, she discovered her calling as a healing evangelist.

Julie became known for her simple yet powerful approach to prayer. She believed healing wasn’t confined to hospitals or clinics. “God works everywhere,” she often said. “On the streets, in the parks, even at the corner of Laycock Street and Gold Coast Boulevard.”

One Thursday evening, Julie stood before a group gathered in the Clifford Street Uniting Church. The room, though modest, was filled with anticipation.

“Tomorrow night,” Julie began, her voice steady, “we’ll take what we’ve learned to the streets. Healing isn’t just about physical ailments. Sometimes, people need healing in their hearts, their minds, or their lives. We’re going to offer them hope.”

A man in the back raised his hand. “What if they don’t believe?” he asked.

Julie smiled. “Faith isn’t a requirement for love. When we pray, we’re showing love. That’s what matters.”

She spent the evening teaching practical steps—how to approach someone, how to listen, and how to pray without making it about oneself. “Remember,” she said, “we’re instruments, not the source. Trust the process.”

Enter Trent Kayne

The next evening, the group reconvened, joined by Trent Kayne, a renowned healing evangelist and a longtime friend of Julie’s.

Trent was tall, with an unassuming presence that belied his influence. “Healing isn’t magic,” he began. “It’s an invitation. When we pray, we invite God to do what only He can.”

He shared two stories.

The first was about a young boy in Brisbane who had been unable to walk without assistance. “His parents were desperate,” Trent said. “We prayed, and within minutes, he stood on his own. The look on his face wasn’t just joy—it was freedom.”

The second story was about a woman in Sydney battling deep depression. “She came forward during a service,” he said. “We prayed for peace. The next day, she called me, saying for the first time in years, she felt like herself again.”

The room was silent.

Trent looked at the group. “Healing takes courage. Not just for those receiving it, but for those offering it. You have to believe even when it feels impossible.”

Downtown on Friday Night

That Friday night, Julie, Trent, and the group walked downtown. The streets were alive with music and chatter. Neon lights reflected on the wet pavement, and the salty air carried the sounds of laughter and waves.

Julie approached a man sitting on a bench near Cavill Avenue. He looked weary, his clothes rumpled. “Hi,” she said gently. “Would it be okay if I prayed for you?”

The man hesitated, then nodded. Julie knelt beside him and prayed, her words simple and sincere. When she finished, tears streamed down his face. “I don’t know why,” he said, “but I feel lighter.”

Elsewhere, Trent prayed for a woman with a swollen ankle. After a few moments, she stood up, her pain gone. “I can’t believe it,” she said, laughing. “It’s like a miracle!”

The group returned to the church late that night, tired but exhilarated.

Stories of Healing

The next morning, the group gathered again at the church. Julie stood at the front, holding a small notebook. “I want to share one story from last night,” she said.

She described meeting a woman named Lila, who had been walking aimlessly near the Gold Coast Highway. “Lila told me she felt invisible,” Julie said. “Her family had stopped calling, her friends had drifted away, and she didn’t see a way forward. We prayed for her to feel seen and loved.”

Julie paused, her voice thick with emotion. “When we finished, she looked at me and said, ‘You’ve given me hope.’”

Trent stepped forward. “Hope is powerful,” he said. “Sometimes, it’s the first step toward healing.”

He invited the group to stand. “Let’s pray together now,” he said. “Not just for the people we met, but for ourselves. For courage, for compassion, and for faith.”

As Trent prayed, a sense of unity filled the room. The group knew their work was just beginning.