[ Two days ago I promised to blog about the cousin who was killed in a car crash, the second childhood incident that taught me about prayer’s importance. One day late, here it is. ]

Growing up, we had five cousins living in distant California. The oldest, Karen, was a bit older than the rest of us, and we all looked up to her. She was full of personality with many friends, and when she was 17, one of them invited her to be a bridesmaid in her wedding.

That weekend Karen happily climbed into the groomsman’s blue Corvette, and with the top down, they began their two hour drive to the rehearsal. The bride and groom followed in their own sports car. While rounding a curve, a car driven by a drunk driver on a spree with three buddies crossed the centerline and slammed head-on into the Corvette.

Karen and her driver were both killed, the bride and groom critically injured. The drunk driver and two of his passengers died, too, and the wedding never took place.

The night our family got the phone call with this shocking news, I watched my parents, in the midst of their confusion and sorrow, turn to God in prayer. After flying to California the next day, I observed one scene after another that didn’t line up with my 12 year old world view. Watching my mom and aunt weep freely was bad enough, but I’d never seen a man cry. The low point came during the funeral when I looked down the church pew and saw my dad’s profile. Although he was facing forward not making a sound, tears were running down his face, and life seemed to fall apart.

Karen’s parents prayed countless prayers during those difficult days as they asked God to use her life and also her death for his purposes. I noticed that communication with God seemed to anchor unsteady adults.

When Karen’s senior English teacher gave her parents the last school assignment she’d turned in, my aunt and uncle were able to read her candid “Philosophy of Life.” In no-nonsense words, she detailed her love for Christ, quoting Philippians 1:21: “For to me, to live is Christ, to die is gain.” They were comforted to see, in her handwriting, these words: “I know that after death I will go to be with Him forever.”

That school assignment eventually became the centerpiece of a pamphlet entitled “Teenage Triumph” and was printed in 14 languages, distributed on every continent. Countless young people have come to Christ because of her testimony during the 51 years since her death. Eventually her story was included in a book entitled MORE THAN CONQUERORS along with celebrities like Chuck Colson, Corrie Ten Boom, C. S. Lewis and Billy Graham.

When Karen’s parents were in their eighties, a film company making a video about answered prayer asked if they’d be willing to share their daughter’s story again, as one of five examples on the hour-long documentary. Although the interview brought back some of their pain, joy over the wide-ranging impact of Karen’s life led them to say yes.

My uncle reiterated on tape how they’d dedicated Karen to the Lord when she was born, and so she’d really belonged to him all along. He said, “Her life has counted. Her death has counted. And her influence was greater after she died than before.”

I began to see that God hadn’t “killed Karen” in a random act of cruelty but had let it happen for specific, eternal purposes. And remembering that her parents had prayed for her life to be used by him, I began to glimpse the vast scope of prayer.

God takes us at our word. He hears every utterance and has the power to affect dramatic change. I’ve found that watching him work is one of life’s peak thrills. To me, forfeiting a chance to pray about something is to throw away an opportunity unequaled by any other.

“I am praying to you because I know you will answer, O God. Bend down and listen as I pray. Show me your unfailing love in wonderful ways. Satisfy the hunger of your treasured ones.” (Palm 17:6,7,14b)

It was my privilege today to return to the hospital where Nate underwent 14 radiation treatments, Rush University Medical Center in downtown Chicago. He and I first met Dr. Abrams on September 22 last fall, the day we learned of Nate’s fatal cancer. Dr. Abrams was on the team of medical experts who’d analyzed the data before meeting us at that gathering of experts, and who’d participated in gently giving us the shocking news.

Although we saw many new faces that day and shook hands with seven doctors, Dr. Abrams stood out as warm, concerned, sympathetic. He was the one to whom we were being turned over, the one who had already mapped out Nate’s radiation strategy. And he was the one who looked us both in the eyes and realized we didn’t have a clue what was happening on that fateful day. He told me later he decided at the end of that first meeting to “adopt” us both, wanting to be our soft place to fall, and he made good on that private commitment throughout those horrendous six weeks. He’s still making good on it, proven today by his invitation to have another conversation with me.

Both Nate and I liked Dr. Abrams immediately. He knew his stuff, but beyond that, he cared about us, our whole family, not just his cancer patient. Today as we talked, he asked about our children, wanting to know how they were coping with the loss of their father. He asked about me, too, and what I was doing with my time. When I told him it seems to be getting more difficult to live without Nate, he nodded with understanding.

I thanked the doctor for putting me together with the Rush media department, from which came the opportunity to post Nate’s story on the hospital “In Person” web page. And when I asked if he’d be willing to contribute a post to www.GettingThroughThis.com, he didn’t hesitate. “Just give me an assignment,” he said, with a smile.

Dr. Abrams fascinates me. We are different at our centers, one an Orthodox Jew, the other a Christian. I respect him highly and am astounded by his compassionate doctoring. We also have much common ground, beginning with Nate, who is the reason for our meeting in the first place. And we both find deep satisfaction in the relationships of our large families. We also share an interest in talking about the dying part of life and spent some time today discussing the universality of mortality.

Today I had a chance to “meet” his family as he proudly showed me a succession of photos from when his children were little and he was a young man, through to each child’s wedding and now several grandchildren. And although he willingly adopted us/me six months ago, Dr. Abrams and I are not so much parent and child anymore but friends. I am indeed grateful.

“Even in darkness light dawns for the upright, for the gracious and compassionate and righteous man.” (Psalm 112:4)

I love to pray. As I see it, there’s no richer activity on this earth. After all, prayer is direct communication with Almighty God. What could possibly top that?

I didn’t always see prayer this way, though. Growing up, our family prayed like many other families: at mealtime…

• “Dear Lord, we thank thee for this food,
• We pray thee bless it, to our good.
• Help us live thy name to praise
• In all we do, through all our days. Amen.”

…and at bedtime. Mom would take turns kneeling beside each of our beds, praying different prayers over us. And of course I remember bowing my head in Sunday school and church.

But two distinct childhood experiences planted fertile seeds of prayer in me. The first occurred when I was eight. My sister Mary, age nine, was playing with a neighbor child who wanted to light a fire in his yard. Mary watched as he poured gasoline over twigs and papers, also splashing it on her jeans. When he threw in the match, a fireball engulfed everything at once, including Mary’s pants. The boy raced from his yard, through ours and into our house yelling, “Mary’s on fire! Mary’s on fire!”

It was Saturday, and Dad was home. He ran out the kitchen door, grabbing a throw rug as he stepped over it, hoping to smother the flames. As we rounded the garage, Mary came limping toward us, the fire out but her jeans charred and still smoking. She’d rolled herself in the dirt, which had smothered the flames.

Dad carried her inside, and as her whimpers grew to sharp cries, he gently tried to cut off her jeans to assess the damage. But Mary’s pain was acute, and the cloth had melted into her skin. Mom was weeping, holding our little brother, and suddenly my whole world felt like it was coming to an end.

I was told to stay out of the way and couldn’t do anything to help, but I did think of one thing. I ran to the living room, looked up at the ceiling and said, “Oh God, don’t let Mary die!”

After she underwent skin graft surgery and spent several weeks in the hospital, my prayer was answered in the affirmative. God let Mary live, and a little girl’s faith in the power of prayer started to grow.

The other defining incident occurred when I was 12. Our family received a phone call that caused Mom to wail like I’d never heard before as she hollered, “No! No! No!”

Our cousin had been killed in a car crash at 17. (Tomorrow’s blog) Once again I felt like we were all coming undone with the catastrophe of that night. But Dad took action and gave us hope. He said, “We better pray.”

The five of us kneeled down next to my sister’s bed, and he prayed while we cried. I don’t remember his words, but I do remember his urgency to get to prayer. And a middle-school girl’s faith in the power of prayer took another growth spurt.

As I got older, problems multiplied and decisions with consequence needed to be made. I found myself pursuing conversation with God more and more, needy for his involvement. (The December 12^th post describes this journey.)

Today, as a widow with an empty nest, I have few demands on my time and no set schedule, letting me pray an hour or so a day. (By the way, reader, you factor into a nice chunk of that.) Prayer also whets my appetite for face to face conversation with Christ, an extravagance I know will one day be mine. Likewise, it can one day be yours.

As a child, I could never have understood why anyone would want to pray an hour a day. But if I live long enough, I hope to be praying even more than that.

^“When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a (wo)man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.” (1 Corinthians 13:11-12a)