Prayer Changes Things ... Prayer Changes She Who Prays!

I've always heard it said that prayer changes things but I've always believed that what prayer really changes is the person who's praying.  That point was driven home to me this week in brilliant color.

I've blogged already about my precious little granddaughter, who remains in critical condition after having surgery on her little heart last week.  And I've blogged a little about the challenges that come from being out of work and from looking for work when you're over 50, and the toll this economy has taken on our family. 

I've blogged that I seem to be having a crisis of faith and that sometimes it just seems as if my prayers are going unanswered.  I know in my head that they're not, but in my heart I just don't feel like things are changing for the better.

I guess I would say that I'm coming to terms with the fact that our lifestyle may be changing drastically and I'm learning to be content in any and all situations.  And I have entrusted my tiny granddaughter to my God, a God I firmly believe still works miracles.  But how often do we pray without having any vision as to what God can really do?

My friend has been sending me short devotionals she is writing that outline the miracles she has seen in her years as a career missionary.  They are all wonderful and I have asked her for permission to share some of them in my blog.  She said as long as I don't name names, she's fine with it.  

Hidden in the Shadow of the Almighty

 

The trip should have been short and simple: go to the university and rehearse music with a few students in preparation for recording. But I was not in the U.S.A., and in some countries the concept of “simple” is elusive. This trip was no exception—first of all because my motorbike wouldn’t start, and I had to take the mission’s pick-up.

Then there was a minor point: the university students were rebelling against the government and had burned several police cars. And, we were “blessed” to be living halfway between the police station and the campus. Not far into my five mile journey I encountered a road block and police check.

“Show me the registration for this vehicle.”

 

“Well, I’m borrowing this from the mission; my motorbike died. Let me check the glove box.” Of course, there were NO registration papers in the vehicle. So a couple officers who were watching the whole ordeal began shouting, “Arrest her!” “Arrest her!”

I thought I would die; my heart began to race as I began imagining myself in a third world jail. “I can return to the office and bring the papers to you,” I volunteered. He shook his head in the negative and motioned me on.

Continuing on to the campus, I let my thoughts start to simmer as I remembered that my husband had purchased the vehicle for the mission and didn’t put the registration in it. Now what?  How will I get home? There is only ONE route.

Arriving at the campus I phoned my husband, asking him to bring the registration to the university. “Oh, I don’t think we ever got it,” was his nonchalant reply.

“Great! Then come and get me at five o’clock.”

“We can’t leave the vehicle there; it will get stripped, and the police will be kinder to you than they would a man.”  

Did he REALLY believe that? Women here can’t even vote!

My mind was NOT on the rehearsal; it was all on dealing with the police checkpoint on the way home, with more traffic, and with the second shift of policemen manning the checkpoint. One of the students requested a ride home. I told him I couldn’t take him as there was no place in the truck to hide “potential subversives.” I told him if he could somehow get around the checkpoint on foot, I would pick him up on the other side and deliver him to his home. He realized the predicament and said not to worry.

Shaking, I got into the truck. As I approached the blockade I could see, not three officers on each side, but four. They were stopping two vehicles at a time in each direction. “Oh God, I sighed, please, please, just help me not to cry.” My pulse was nearing 150. The two cars ahead of me completed their checks as I rolled down my window and eased into place for my turn. “PLEASE, GOD, DON’T LET ME CRY!”

The front two of the four officers looked to their left—way ahead of me; the other two looked to the right motioning to the cars behind me. I almost came to a complete stop—waiting for an outstretched hand to bring me to a halt. IT DIDN’T HAPPEN. I continued, slowly passing all four officers. NOT ONE PAIR OF EYES MADE CONTACT WITH ME OR MY VEHICLE! I WAS INVISIBLE—TOTALLY HIDDEN IN THE SHADOW OF THE ALMIGHTY.

I accelerated slowly continuing home, and, of course, I CRIED!

How many times do I pray that God will help me not to cry when what He really wants is to deliver me from whatever situation I have found myself in, but I have too little faith to even know what to ask for?  I think I'm going to change my prayer strategy and start praying that God will just decide what's best for me and then give Him permission to do just that!  Care to join me?