The Lord writes stories no man could invent. One of the most extraordinary threads in recent history may reach all the way back to a pair of praying sisters on a remote Scottish island — and forward to the Oval Office of the United States.
Donald Trump’s mother, Mary Anne MacLeod, was born in 1912 on the Isle of Lewis in the Hebrides — a land known for its rugged beauty and deep, reverent piety. She emigrated to the United States in 1930, but the island never left her. She remained a devout Presbyterian, and spoke often of the solemnity and power of the faith that shaped her.
Nineteen years after she left, in 1949, the Hebridean Revival broke out. It began not in the pulpit, but in the hidden place of prayer. And central to that movement were two elderly sisters: Peggy Smith, 84 and blind, and Christine Smith, 82 and arthritic. Unable to attend public worship, they devoted themselves to intercession in their cottage in Barvas.
They prayed night and day for revival. They cried out for God to rend the heavens. They received a word that God was going to send an awakening, and they held the Church and the community to account for its spiritual barrenness. Their prayers were catalytic — and soon the fire fell. The Spirit of God moved across the island with such weight that men walking along roads were struck down by conviction, and entire villages turned to Christ without a word preached.
And here is where the story deepens. According to longstanding oral tradition in the Hebrides, Peggy and Christine were not merely devout islanders. They were also family: believed to be the aunts of Mary Anne MacLeod, most likely on her mother’s side — making them Donald Trump’s great-aunts.
If true, this is no mere curiosity. It is a parable of the power of prayer, the reach of generational faith, and the mysterious ways of God. Could it be that the intercession of two hidden saints helped shape not only a revival in the Hebrides, but a destiny across the Atlantic — one that would touch the highest corridors of power?
We cannot say for certain. But we know this: God answers prayer. He honours the cries of the humble. And He weaves history with a precision and irony that humbles the wise.
“But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise…” (1 Corinthians 1:27)
It may well be that while the world scoffs at Donald Trump, heaven still hears the prayers of two old ladies in Barvas — prayers offered in blindness and pain, but soaked in faith and eternity.
And then, there is this.
During the strange and chaotic interregnum between the 2020 U.S. election and the January inauguration, a believer shared a dream. In the dream, Donald Trump was running a marathon. The finish line was in sight — just a hundred yards to go — when he stumbled and fell. Exhausted and unable to rise, he lay there. From the crowd, two elderly women stepped forward — unnoticed by most — and gently lifted him to his feet. He finished the race.
As that dream was being told, I was gripped. And in that moment, I believe the Lord spoke something quietly, clearly, unmistakably to my spirit:
“The purpose of the Hebridean Revival was the birth of a president.”
Make of that what you will. I make no doctrine of it. I don’t use it to argue politics. But I know the Hebridean Revival was real. I know the spiritual force behind it. I know the names of the two elderly sisters who prayed. And I know that Mary Anne MacLeod, Donald Trump’s mother, came from the same island — and, by all consistent testimony, the same family.
I also know this: the hatred the world holds for Donald Trump — irrational, venomous, and global — has a spiritual edge. It is too consistent, too hysterical, to be merely political. It feels, to me, like reflected demonic hatred — the kind once directed at prophets, reformers, revivalists, and anyone God dares to raise up outside the script.
That doesn’t make him perfect. He is not. But neither was Cyrus. Or Jehu. Or Samson. God’s men are not always the ones we expect. But the fact that they are hated by the world may be part of the proof.
What if the Hebridean Revival, with all its holiness and trembling and power, was not just for the salvation of a region, but to sow a seed across the ocean? What if the prayers of those two sisters were not only for a visitation, but for a vessel?
I offer no conclusions — only this testimony. But I believe the Lord may be saying something through it. And perhaps, in this hour of shaking and exposure, the story isn’t finished yet.