Prayer

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 75^th 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.