Like Hans, we must all be willing to find a bigger horizon than our
personal needs. It is one thing to recognize that we are created beings, but quite another to actively turn to the Creator for his guidance in our daily lives. Without this broader view, it is impossible
to come to grips with everything that comes our way. Again and
again we need to let go of our opinions, our attempts to control
our own life, and then God’s plans can have power in our lives.
Steven McDonald, a former New York City police officer whose
story I told in my book
Seventy Times Seven,
is paralyzed from the
neck down as the result of a gunshot wound. He has a tracheostomy, and a respirator must accompany him wherever he goes.
I know I wouldn’t be here today, and we wouldn’t be together
as a family, if it weren’t for prayer. There are days I cannot pray
and don’t want to pray, and that is because Satan is working on
me not to talk to God. But I must find the will to pray, because
it’s our way of communicating with God, to tell him over and
over again that we love him. For years I had thought about going to Ireland, as I am an Irish Catholic and have been concerned
about the violence going on over there. I always thought about
it in my prayers. And then suddenly this summer, there I was in
Ireland.
Lately, a lot of people have stopped believing in God. I am
able to find strength to survive each day, and to make it from
one week to the next only with God’s help. People wonder why
God allows terrible things to happen on earth. I don’t believe
God allows bad things to happen, also not to me. Even in a condition like mine, you can be productive for God. I have had to
ask myself, How can you live to please God rather than yourself?
The answer is to live your life according to God’s will. And you
need prayer to do that.
Prayer is something we do in
our
time, but the answers come
in
God’s
time. Sometimes those answers come when we least expect them.
There have been times when I have been very low, times
when I have even wanted to kill myself. One time, two or three
years ago, I was feeling terrible and things were just getting to
me. My wife, Patti Ann, called Cardinal O’Connor, and he came
to our house. One of the things he said was, “Your life can be a
prayer.” That makes a lot of sense to me.
For the past twelve years, Steven has been totally dependent on his
wife and his nurses for his twenty-four hour care. But instead of
being bitter he radiates peace, and at every opportunity he witnesses to the power of forgiveness and the power of prayer. There
is a deep love between husband and wife. Patti Ann is a key player
in who Steven is today, and she has been an immeasurable support
to him, often acting quietly behind the scenes:
After Steven was shot, it didn’t really sink in until the next day
that he was seriously injured. I remember coming home from the
hospital and saying, “Either go with it, or fight it; either accept
it, or blame God.” I decided right then to be there for Steven,
and to hope and pray. We have our good days and bad days, but
prayer is really the only thing we have to hang on to. We are very
blessed that we have each other, and through it all we have
hung on because of everything that’s been given to us. I see
other women who have able-bodied husbands and everything
they could possibly want, but I wonder if they are satisfied inside.
One reason that prayer might seem so ineffectual in many lives is
our refusal to let go and trust in God’s leading. How many people
are overly concerned about their physical ailments? How many parents obsess over children whom they feel have gone bad ways?
Hard as it is, each of us needs to accept the fact that there is a time
when we must simply let go of our problems and entrust them to
God.
Monica, the mother of Saint Augustine, lived in Hippo (a Roman city
in northern Africa) during the fourth century. Her young son, as yet
unconverted, lived a life of depravity and sin. In desperation over her
son’s waywardness, she went to her bishop. His advice? “Stop talking
to your son about God. Talk instead to God about your son.”
And then there are Jesus’ words: “Look at the birds of the air:
they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, yet your heavenly
father feeds them. Are you not more valuable than they? Which of
you can add to the value of your life by worrying?”
The death of a child
, a devastating illness or debility –these are
major events to be sure; but even at such times in life, we must let
go. Obviously, one cannot merely abandon significant concerns, but
when they loom greater than God, who is the only one who has the
power to help us, then our preoccupation becomes self-centered.
Merrill, a pastor who worked with me until his death twelve years
ago, put it this way: it is a matter of aligning our will with God’s
will, not the other way around.
When Reseph and Susan, a couple in my church, were expecting
their fifth child, they found themselves face to face with this
challenge.
Before Daniel was born we knew he would be a very sick little
boy – if he made it into the world at all. Halfway through Susan’s
pregnancy Daniel was found to have enlarged kidneys, and this
necessitated his birth two months early. His kidneys had not
been able to drain properly, which had caused them to be permanently damaged. The premature birth brought with it a number of other difficulties, and Daniel was attached to many different machines to keep him alive. Several operations had to be
done in the first weeks. It was all very difficult for us, and we had
to struggle to accept his situation. Why didn’t we have a normal
child? What happens when our will is different from God’s will?
After ten days, when things were looking like Daniel would
not pull through, our minister and his wife asked us if we had
ever held our little boy in our arms. We had not. So we told the
neonatal ICU staff of our wish to take Daniel down to the hospital chapel, where we wanted to hold him and intercede for him.
That same evening, Daniel was brought to the chapel,
where a whole crowd of children and adults from our church
sang and prayed for our son. Taking him out of the ICU was a
bold step, and we didn’t know if he’d survive. Every breath had
to be pumped into him by hand, and we wept to see him so
helpless.
The next morning Daniel seemed much brighter to us, and
the nurses showed us that his chart documented a very real improvement. There were several more ups and downs in the following days, but Daniel had definitely turned a corner. After
sixty days in the ICU, we could finally bring him home.
Over the next two years, Daniel suffered innumerable complications: infections, operations, more hospitalizations. His parents had
to let go of him time and again. They found that whenever they
became over-anxious, protective, or hovering, things did not go
well – for them or for Daniel. His father writes:
Those were hard years, caring for such a sick child and our four
other young children. We were often exhausted, and would become impatient with our other children.
During the summer of 1995 we were totally preoccupied
with Daniel, his needs, his health. Susan was not available, physically or emotionally, for anything else. Then, in the fall of that
year, we collapsed. Our minister and his wife spent much time
and effort with us, helping us to understand the critical importance of entrusting Daniel completely to God. For the first time,
we understood what letting go meant. And so we did it. Miraculously, just as we had been told, God took over in Daniel’s little
life as never before. He grew and became strong, and he has not
been hospitalized since.
Things have gone smoothly in the last few years, but we
know that Daniel has extremely poor kidneys and that we are
going to face some major medical decisions with him before too
long. We have not “let go” for the last time. We’ll have to do it
again and again.
Go tell it on the mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere,
Go tell it on the mountain,
That Jesus Christ is born.
When I was a sinner,
I prayed both night and day.
I asked my Lord to help me,
And he showed me the way.
When I was a seeker,
I sought both night and day.
I asked my Lord to help me,
And he taught me to pray.
He made me a watchman
Upon the city wall;
And if I am a Christian,
I am the least of all.
Traditional Spiritual
One of my favorite songs
, “Go tell it on the mountain,” contains
a remarkably deep understanding of a person’s relationship to God.
First, the speaker is conscious of his sin; he persists in prayer, pleading for divine intervention, and God answers. But then, like the rest
of us, he strays and loses the way. He has to seek it again, diligently,
and is led back to prayer, and through it to humility.
We have all done wrong, and many of life’s struggles are caused
by wrongdoing of one sort or another. Countless people have come
to me, burdened by sin and guilt and longing to be freed through
confession. When a person comes in a spirit of true remorse, it is a
humbling experience. Sometimes my own heart is struck by a confession because I realize I am guilty of the same thing.
Earlier, I mentioned unconfessed personal guilt as a common obstacle to prayer. Though I believe it is a universal truth, it is not
universally acknowledged. William Shakespeare recognized it: after Claudius kills his brother, Hamlet’s father, to win the crown and
the queen, he is shown wrestling with his inability to pray, despite
his desire for repentance:
O, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven;
It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t,
A brother’s murder. Pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will:
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin…
But, Oh, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? ‘Forgive me my foul murder’?
That cannot be; since I am still possess’d
Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition and my queen.
May one be pardon’d and retain the offense?…
Try what repentance can: what can it not?
Yet what can it when one can not repent?
O wretched state! O bosom black as death!
O limed soul, that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay!
In each person is the longing to be in touch with God. Often, however, it is hidden under so many layers of self that the outer life
completely masks the inner. In such cases the spiritual life is not
even evident; it lies dormant, its potential completely unrealized.
Once a spiritual awakening is given, the struggle to remain faithful
to that calling begins. This calls for a constant choosing between
right and wrong, good and evil, and an ongoing cleansing of ourselves when we make the wrong choice.
I first got to know Brian through our church’s prison ministry in
the late 1980s. Earlier, he had served in the Marines and experienced violence and abuse. When Brian was released from prison he
came to our church, experienced a conversion, and was baptized.
After a few years of desperately trying to live a new life, Brian left
us, committed another felony, and landed in jail again. He is currently doing time in a federal prison.
Now Brian is looking forward to a new chance of committing his
life to God, and as his pastor I cannot and will not abandon him.
Doesn’t the apostle Paul instruct us to bear one another’s burdens?
We should always reach out an encouraging hand to anyone who
has fallen and help such a person to repentance and forgiveness. In
any case, Brian has become a missionary to his fellow inmates, and
prayer is again becoming a reality to him in lonely hours.
Here in prison, prayer is crucial. For me it is the most peaceful and
quiet time in my day – when I am walking in the yard, or on my
knees, or working. I stay quiet for as long as I can, most of the
time saying nothing at all, and if I do I just say, “I am sorry,”
“thank you,” and “please help me to love each person I meet
this day.” I ask for the Lord’s will to be done when I meet someone who is sick, or when someone writes and tells me about
someone else’s needs. I see this as a way to love more. Jesus said
faith will move mountains, and I have faith that God hears our
prayers. I don’t think we always get what we ask for, but I know
in my heart that God always helps us. I fall short every day, but I
will not stop reaching for the peace of heart that only being
faithful to God can give, and prayer is a very important part of
walking the path Jesus has laid out in front of us.
Stephanie, a friend
living in a neighboring town, wrote to me
recently about her many years of searching for truth and meaning
in life.
I had an idyllic childhood in a Jewish home; I was an adored firstborn, a pampered first grandchild on both sides. One relative
tried to convince me that I would grow up to be the first woman
president, and another that I would become a rich and famous
doctor, not to mention stunningly beautiful and well married
with a dozen cherubic children.
I was displayed at weddings and bar mitzvahs and basked in
the limelight of it all. We enjoyed huge family gatherings and
trips up and down the East Coast. My mother taught me to cook
and let me help her prepare for dinner parties even when I
needed to stand on a chair to reach the counter. Later, I was
given private harp lessons, attended Hebrew school, went on
holidays to Cape Cod.
Four more siblings came along, my father became ill, his business collapsed, and our world changed dramatically by the time I
was twelve. But I still expected as much of my parent’s affection and
attentions as I had when I was three. I was decidedly self-centered,
proud, rebellious, demanding. Some people simply call it “adolescence.”
However, I was not yet able to articulate what was troubling
me. I had been loved, yet spoiled, and I had few inner resources
to draw upon. Then greater issues widened the gap between my
parents and me.
As a troubled teenager I sought answers to my problems in
the spirit of the early 60s, while on the other side were the enormous spiritual questions that I tried desperately to answer. I
wanted to
know.
I wanted to know what I was supposed to do
with my life, my destiny. I wanted to know with certainty who is
God. I wanted truth.
In this dilemma I began to pray. I asked my parents about
prayer, but did not find many answers there. My mother felt that
religion was a matter of superstitions lived out of fear by an
older, uneducated generation, a crutch to help one in hard
times. The inner life was not a priority in my parents’ lives.
Over the next few years I visited many different churches but
was always disappointed. I was frustrated, disillusioned, and felt
my parents were beyond my reach. I actually despaired of ever
realizing the truth I had once longed for. I prayed to God from
the depths of my despair. I asked him to find some way for me to
run away so that life would be happy ever after. But meanwhile
my rebellion intensified and so did my despair. Then I prayed
that God would take me to heaven and end my misery on earth.
I longed to end my torment and knew there was a God who
cared, even when no one here below seemed to. I cut my wrists
twelve times with a razor.
On the advice of a team of psychiatrists and social workers,
my parents reluctantly placed me in a state mental hospital. I was
thirteen. I never saw those psychiatrists or social workers again.
We were warehoused, building by building, by age, and
drugged with huge doses of liquid thorazine into manageable
groups. All of the nurses were black and made no secret of hating white people. There were only three white girls in my ward,
and the nurses would periodically provoke one of us by stealing
a toy or calling us names, and then they would give us an extra
shot to “calm” us down.
Only four of the patients could write. I was one of them. I
spent my days writing letters for the other 196 girls. Love letters,
promises of gang revenge, letters to a parent to rescue their
daughter from this hell. One of the girls spent most of her time
training the retarded ones to hold their pills under their tongues
when they were dispensed and then head for the showers and
give them to her. She collected pills that way for a month and
then took all of them. We never saw Cynthia again. Another girl,
Mary, was there because her mother had tried to poison her, and
when the courts incarcerated the mother, she had nowhere to
go. Mary was justifiably depressed: all she had to look forward
to in life was reaching her eighteenth birthday and being transferred to Building #26, where the women were.
Our fenced day-yard was adjacent to the women’s. I was curious to know who all those women were and talked to them
whenever I had time outdoors. Some were older, forcibly retired
prostitutes. Others had repeatedly tried to take their lives. One
younger woman was continually on LSD.
Months melted into years, and I lost all track of time. I first
read the Bible in the quiet of a shower stall at that place. I also
observed that very few of the girls in Building #36 were actually
dangerous, delinquent, incorrigible, or even mentally ill. They
were simply unwanted and unloved. Many had never known
love.
I am one of the too few survivors of that infamous institution. After my eventual discharge, I refused to return to school.
In human terms, life became my teacher, but I know now – it was
grace. Over the next few years, I began to ask, Who is this God
who saves me? Is it I who am seeking, or, rather, is it he who
draws me?
I was not certain then which way to turn. At this time I met a
Quaker family who lived near the same college where my father
taught. They invited me often, and I found a haven of peace and
unconditional love there. I know they prayed for me then, and I
am sure they have never stopped. I spent much time in silent
prayer and read every religious and theological book that our
local library and the university had to offer, and then went to the
local parish to ask for baptism. An old Polish priest sat me down
in his study to question my motives. He did not ask me about my
past, and I took the gospel at its word that I would become a
new creature in Christ. I never spoke about the past. I could
never forget, but I looked on it as my secret. I was resigned to
carry it alone the rest of my life.
My priest was not sure how to avoid the usual ecclesiastical
red tape, so he quietly baptized me early one spring morning.
No sponsors, no witnesses. He became a “co-conspirator” and a
loving grandfather to me.
Once I was convinced that God wanted me, I decided to give
my life to him in earnest. I knew I could never return to any semblance of life as I had previously known it. I trusted that I would
be led and was, in fact, led sooner than I anticipated. Determined to find a niche somewhere in a religious order, I found a
little group of reformed Carmelites. While I was preparing to
enter, Reverend Mother arranged for me to meet a friend of
hers, a young man recently returned home from a visit to the
Trappist monks…
Today David and I have been married twenty-one years. Our
marriage has gone through decidedly rocky times, but it has been
restored through prayer. Daily we ask each other’s forgiveness
where we have been impatient, unloving, or selfish. God has
sent us many blessings, including five children.
I have seen miracles in the lives of those around me, as well
as in my own life. I carried around my past, my horrible secrets,
for three decades and now have been able to share all of it with
my husband and with our pastor and his wife. I have found a
clear conscience and a freeing that I never expected in this
world. All of these are miracles, all are undeserved.