At the winding down point of a gathering, my siblings,
parents, and I were sitting in the front room of my folks’ house in Berne,
Indiana talking about God. Now there’s nothing terribly unusual about that, but
this conversation went down a rather unexpected path.
For reasons I don’t entirely understand, I’m typically
the one answering questions and leading the conversation. Perhaps because I’m
the oldest. Perhaps because I’m “the preacher”, but then again, so is my
brother, so that doesn’t make sense.
Regardless, on this occasion I was the inquisitor and
my Dad the answer man. Frankly, that doesn’t make much sense either. I gave my
heart to Jesus when I was just a kid. Dad, who stepped unsteadily into his
eighty first year this past July, only gave his heart to Jesus four years ago.
He rarely has much to say during these post family get together days . . . but
not this day!
A conundrum that I’ve kept locked in one of the
recesses of my brain is why God seems to prevent a tragedy on the one hand, yet
ignores and allows tragedy on the other hand. Or why God miraculously heals one
person from some awful illness, yet others die from that same illness. How and
why does He make these distinctions?
I’ve raised that question on numerous occasions, in
just as numerous group settings, gaining insight following each conversation, yet
having never walked away satisfied, never quite feeling like my question had
been answered. I raised that same question on this particular late Sunday
afternoon, had barely gotten the question out of my mouth when my Dad blurted,
“Prayer! It’s prayer. My mother’s and your mother’s continued prayers are why
I’m a Christian today. That’s what makes the difference”
He was sitting to my left, and I turned and sort of
stared at him . . . speechless.
I’m still a little speechless. Is the answer really that simple? Yes,
it is; then again, no it isn’t.
My Grandmother Hartman died less than a month shy of
her 75th birthday. Family lore has it that she and Grandpa Hartman
gave their hearts to Jesus when my Dad was just a boy. Assuming she started
praying for her son almost as soon as she met Jesus, she prayed for him from
1946 (Dad would have been 10) right up until her death in 1980, for 34 years,
and maybe longer.
My folks got married in May of 1956. Mom gave her
heart to Jesus when I was five or six. She’s been praying for her kids and
husband from 1961 or 1962 right up to this very day. So someone(s) had been
faithfully praying for my Dad to give his heart to Jesus for at least 66 years
before he actually did so, and according to him, it was those prayers that
brought him to that decision.
So yes, it really does appear to be as simple as the
act of entreating God for His influence and intervention; yet it’s as difficult
as decades of faithfulness in our entreaties. Dad’s Mother never lived to
witness the answer to her prayers, yet there that answer sits, right now, in
that chair in Berne, Indiana.
As you leave the Grand Traverse Memorial Gardens in
Traverse City, Michigan, where my paternal grandparents are buried, you’ll find
yourself looking at the back of the entrance sign which quotes Alfred Tennyson;
“More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.” That Lord
Tennyson used the word ‘wrought’ is significant. It implies the act of forging,
or taking white hot iron and hammering it into the shape you want. It’s hot,
sweaty work, but I can personally attest to the fact that the finished product
is well worth it . . . as is prayer.
Remember that “The effectual fervent prayer of a
righteous man [or mother] availeth much.” (James 5:16 KJV) So keep praying.
