Today I brushed an eyelash off my cheek and it clung to my finger. I looked at the black curl, small and frail, and thought: What is my wish?
I've always used eyelashes for wishes, of course -- who doesn't? I've wished for a scope of things, from an A on a paper to requited love. I've also used dandelions, and though I have plenty of experience with both wishing objects, I haven’t discovered yet which is most effective. Sorry.
What captured me tonight, though, as I lightly contemplated what to wish for and my mind wandered over all the things I desire most -- contentment, unending joy, a human measure of self-confidence -- was that I have almost trusted eyelashes and dandelions more than I have trusted prayer. I don't mean that I believe the eyelash on my finger or the feathery parachutes of dandelions have some magical power to make my wishes come true. What I mean is that I am more likely to make wishes than to pray, because I’m not worried about inanimate objects letting me down. In his book, A Praying Life, Paul E. Miller talks about the widespread but hushed-up Christian doubt about prayer. He mentions the "quiet cynicism or spiritual weariness that develops in us when heartfelt prayer goes unanswered."
I have become quietly cynical.
I don't have as much reason as some, either. I have a loving, unbroken, and healthy family, I graduated from college without financial debt, I am now married to the man that for four years I had hoped to marry. All of those have been prayers, answered in the affirmative. But I have felt let down by so many other prayers – prayers offered so many times by so many groups of faithful Christians for the healing of Will Pufall, who contracted walking pneumonia and then suddenly died in a hospital bed while somewhere else in a quiet room whispered petitions were rising to the ceiling. Prayers offered so many times for the salvation of my friend who couldn’t break drug addiction and alcoholism, passed down through his family. When God doesn’t answer heartfelt prayers for good things, or when He says no, I’m left asking Him, “Don’t you cherish us at all?” And then a long time of silence passes between Him and me.
The other day I was out with a group from my church doing some community service and handing out water bottles to people who stopped by. About two hours into the event, an older man with iron gray hair mostly covered by a black cowboy hat stepped out of his car. I handed him two water bottles, one for him and one for his wife who was sitting in the passenger seat. He said thanks without looking at me, and went silently about his business. I decided to strike up a conversation since we were still standing next to each other.
“Are you from Loveland?” I asked.
The man shook his head, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over part of his deeply creased face. “No, I’m from a town over, but I was in Loveland getting some tests for my cancer.”
I felt my stomach drop. Within a matter of seconds, this conversation had become much more serious than I was ready for. “I’m so sorry,” I said. My mind raced for words. “Are they certain you have cancer?”
The man nodded. He still didn’t make eye contact with me. “Had cancer a few years ago. They just found some more.”
I took a deep breath. “That’s hard. I can’t imagine. Are they starting treatment soon?”
“I go back for surgery Friday afternoon.”
It was a default answer; it came up as quick as the weather: “Do you mind if I pray for you that day?”
The lined face turned to me, and a pair of black eyes relaxed as they met mine. The man smiled so gently, his hard exterior vanishing away. As he spoke, his eyes became wet. “Not at all. Please do.” He paused, but he didn’t break eye contact. Then, “I’ve got a lot of other people praying for me, too.”
I smiled. I didn’t think much of it. We Christians do that all the time – pray for healing, pray in groups for healing, ask for prayer for healing, and talk about praying for healing. I felt kind of good about myself, having stepped out on a limb and asked if I could pray for this stranger. But then—
“It really works,” he said, hushed and reverent. He looked more earnest at that moment, on those three words, than any man I’ve seen. His words flattened me. Here was a man whose cancer had healed and returned. And here was also a man who believed that prayer actually worked. I mean, to him, prayer for healing wasn’t just a tradition. It was effective. And if cancer returned, God could still heal. And if cancer returned and God didn’t heal, prayer still worked – God was still faithful. I could see in this man’s faith that he knew, if healing didn’t come, that to live is Christ and to die is gain.
The man thanked me. But by that time, I felt as small as a person can get. After he drove away, I couldn’t think about anything else. That man’s faith confounded me. It revived me. That man knew, he knew, that God cherishes Him.
“The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” (Phil. 4:5-7)
God never overlooks our prayers. He is near. He is near. If an answer does not seem apparent, the truth is He is answering needs we did not know to ask for. Needs contrary to what we did ask for. “And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus. To our God and Father be glory for ever and ever.” (Phil. 4:19-20) Because of that, though death may fall and suffering continue, peace transcending understanding can still be mine. With thanksgiving. Prayer is saying in the face of unspeakable circumstances, “Nevertheless.”
To our God – yes, to our Father be glory for ever and ever.
