Adventures
in Prayer
by Lucy N. Adams
Early mornings with school age children
are usually routine. But one special morning
many years ago went down in the history book
of my heart. My son Scotty awoke with a tummy
ache. Nothing to worry about, except that his
father had scheduled business meetings out of
town for a few days.
As the other children went off to school,
Scotty’s pain grew more intense. I drove to
our doctor’s office, who I was sure would be
able to help with some great medicine. Instead,
he said, “We must get Scotty to the hospital
immediately. This is appendicitis.”
I was so tense, I might have been the one
who needed hospital care! We were soon in
a hospital room, and Scotty was prepared for
surgery.
I found a Bible on the bedside table and
turned to the well-known Psalm 23. “Oh yes,
Lord, You are my Shepherd,” I said. Then I
closed the Bible and, with hugs, tears, and a
gentle little prayer, whispered, “God bless you,
dear son,” then watched as Scotty was rolled
toward surgery.
The hospital waiting room was homey and
seemed to whisper sweet rest to my weariness.
I had never faced such an emergency alone. My
husband, Woody, was the rock in our family; I
leaned on him for security in all matters. But
when this crisis came, there I was, alone.
Sitting on the couch was good, but looking
over at the magazine rack was better. It was
there I found a small publication that would
soon change my life. The title, Adventures
in Prayer, caught my attention—I had never
thought of prayer in that way.
Could prayer really be an adventure?
The radiant smile of the beautiful woman
on the cover seemed to say yes. Her name
was Catherine Marshall. After reading only one
story, I knew she had things to share with me
that I had never experienced. I was fascinated
that each story revealed a personal crisis she
had experienced and then showed how prayer
had brought the turning point in each one.
Her prayers read like conversations with a real
person. It did not take long for me to realize that
I had never spoken to God that way. To think
that I could talk to Him about anything on my
heart was an exciting and amazing revelation.
I thought back to my Sunday school classes
that were full of good friends and teachers.
Not once during my childhood had I been
taught that I could talk to God as a friend.
Everything that surrounded my faith was
routine, not personal.
Joining the church at ten years of age was
just something I knew I was supposed to do.
Marrying a minister seemed like a good choice
too. I’d always wanted to be a social worker and
figured that Woody’s role as a minister would fit
perfectly with my plan to help people. I had no
idea that it took much more than social work to
be in ministry with the Lord Jesus.
Woody and I had married with great joy after
two years of dating. But now it was 12 years
later. I was 32 years old and in a spiritual daze.
Was I missing something?
That afternoon in New Mexico, where
we were in Christian missions at a Navajo
school, I discovered that I wasn’t just missing
something…I was missing Someone.
Despite my
religiosity, I had no
relationship with God
through His Son Jesus Christ. Yes,
He was my Savior, but He most
certainly was not the Lord of my life.
My whole life had consisted of nothing more
than prayers and lessons that had been given to
me from books. The Bible was little more than
a textbook to me, one from which I had learned
many facts and that had led to me graduating
from a Christian college several years earlier.
But even as a Sunday School teacher, I had
only read the authors’ lessons. I had no fuller
understanding.
From deep within my searching heart, I
quietly told God my burden. “Oh God, I don’t
know You at all. Please help me!” In that short
prayer, I begged for an understanding of what it
meant to be a Christian. I had become hungry
to know the truth of the Gospel and to know
God in a personal way.
Inside my heart, it suddenly felt like
springtime. Was it really possible to feel like a
new person with fresh hope in my heart? It was.
I sat there in that waiting room until I finally
saw Woody coming in the front door of the
hospital. We hurried to each other and quickly
went to Scotty’s room, where he had just been
rolled in from surgery. The doctor’s report
was for full recovery and freedom from pain.
God’s report to me was that I was on my way
to freedom from a form of religion with no deep
meaning. Praise God, my life, ever since that
day, has been filled with many more adventures
in prayer.
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