The three of us huddled beside the recently covered grave, tears freezing on our cheeks. “You know what, Mom?” my older daughter asked. “I don’t know if I believe in the power of prayer anymore. I mean, weren’t all those prayers just a waste of time?”
“Wow, do I understand that feeling,” my younger daughter agreed. “Hundreds of people were praying for Dad, and he still died.
I whispered, “At any given time, I often feel the same way.” Then I asked the question that haunted me night and day, “How could this have happened? I felt sure our prayers would be answered, and your father’s cancer would go into remission.”
As days of shock and sadness dragged on, I often returned to that cold January morning’s conversation. But how could I give up my belief in the power of prayer? After all, prayer was a priority in my life. I didn’t want to bury my prayer life in that grave with Richard, but doubt became a monster that crept in during the night and chided, “Remember how hard you prayed and how sure you were that God would answer?”
In the days that followed, I had trouble focusing during prayer time, both at worship services and during my personal times of reflection.
“How’s your spiritual life?” a friend asked me one day as we met at a local coffee shop. This wasn’t an unusual question because she and I often discussed our faith journeys.
I paused. “I just feel like something is missing and I don’t know what it is. Ever since Richard’s death, I feel like I’m lost in a forest of doubt and I don’t like this feeling!”
“I’ll pray for you,” she offered. Maybe God will listen to her, I thought.
One morning, as I sat in my comfy rocker reading my daily devotion, I read about a man who faced a scary situation and suddenly, he had a sense of peace. His first thought was, My wife must be praying for me! Someone must be praying for me! “I know how that feels,” I whispered. “I’ve experienced that many times.”
Memories flashed through my mind—the time I had a breast biopsy and it was benign; when my father’s prognosis was six months and he lived four more years; when we lost our family business and Richard was offered a good job at the right time.
And how many times had God shown me that He cared about the little things in my life? The many times I’d prayed for my children’s success in their school events, the God-incidences of a nudge when I’d lost something, or the perfectly timed loving words spoken by a friend. I sat back in my rocker, closed my eyes and whispered, “Thank You, God.”
In that still, quiet moment, I heard God say, “You always believed, but your mind was sidetracked by anger, confusion and disappointment.”
The following Easter, my daughters and I took spring flowers to the now grassy gravesite. We talked about good memories. We laughed at their father’s humorous sayings and all the fun times we’d had as a family.
“Remember when we questioned prayer?” I asked.
“Yes, and I still don’t understand why our prayers weren’t answered as we wanted God to answer them,” my daughter said.
“I don’t either,” I answered. “But recently God reminded me of many answered prayers from the past, including some since your father’s death. Even though we don’t understand why God didn’t answer our big prayer the way we wanted, God loves us and wants us to continue talking to Him—and to keep believing prayer is the mightiest power on earth!”
