Miracles and Answered Prayers
The last couple of days have been very odd for me on an emotional level. On the one hand, I'm dealing with some very heavy, very personal stuff. But at the same time some very sweet and dear people are dealing with
real life and death issues. So, with my own situation, the needs of my friends and another friend's recent discussion of
miracles; I have been thinking about the subject a lot.
I do think God answers prayer. I do believe there are still miracles today. What I don't understand is how God chooses when to perform a miracle. What prayers does He answer?
My family has seen its share of miracles as well as unanswered prayers. One of my brothers was born deaf because my mom had rubella when she was 10 weeks pregnant. A good part of my childhood was spent praying for and searching of a miracle so he could hear again. My mom took us to every prayer service, healing service, and gospel revival that came along. We spent every Sunday morning before church in front of the TV praying with
Kathryn Kuhlman that through her my brother would be healed. When she had her overflowing live services, we would go to see her in person. But the miracle never came and the prayers were unanswered. With each unanswered prayer, my mom fell deeper and deeper into her depression. The more depressed she was, the worse my life became.
But there were other miracles in my family. My mom was a heavy smoker. A pack or more a day. When I was in high school she visited The 700 Club. She had a blind friend and she was praying that sight would be restored to her friend. But, as she tells the story, God spoke to her and asked how dare she ask for miracles for others when she continues in the sin of smoking. He told her to go and smoke no more. Regardless of how you feel about Pat Robertson, she hasn't smoked another cigarette since that day.
There was also the time, my dad was healed. He did some major damage to his knee. I don't remember exactly what it was -- but something was torn. They were talking about surgery and my dad was going to be laid up for weeks. At that time he was working two jobs to provide for us. If he had to go on disability, the reduction to less than one salary would have been devastating to my family. My dad called the prayer line at the Upper Room. While on the phone we all heard a noise -- a popping sound. At the end of the phone conversation, he got up (without a cane or any other help) and walked across the room to hang up the phone. He was on his way to kitchen to get a drink when we all realized he was walking without pain! X-rays confirmed that whatever was wrong with my dad's knee was now fixed. Surgery was not needed. The knee was better than new.
Then there was the time that my "second choice" prayer was answered. As you know, when my dad was in end-stage cancer I had to move him into my home to care for him. The cancer had infiltrated the lining of the ventricles in his brain. He was losing his memory. As we got closer to the end, the doctors started to warn me that he was going to appear to be in a lot of pain. They said no matter how morphine they gave him, because of the type and location of the cancer it was very common for the face to appear tortured and in pain.
They said they would give him enough morphine that he wouldn't be in pain. But I worried. How could they really know? He could not answer their questions at this point. It was like taking care of a new born. You had to guess what his needs were. How could they assure me he wasn't in pain -- if he looked like he was in pain?
Then there was the horrible day at the hospital. Dad had a complication that put him in the hospital for a few days. The bed next to him was occupied by another end-stage patient. Something happened to the neighbor. Nurses and doctors rushed in. The closed the curtain and started to work on the man. I don't know what they were doing, but I could hear all kinds of awful sounds. The nurse would say, "This is only going to hurt for a second." Then I would hear ungodly moaning. The nurse would say, "We have to put this down your throat, you'll gag for a minute. But I'm here and I'll hold your hand." Then I would hear this horrendous sound of gagging and crying and pain all mixed together.
I was really touched by how sweet and caring the nurses were with this man. They did everything they could to comfort him and explain to him what was going to happen -- to make it less scary.
I looked at my dad and I was overwhelmed with sadness, fear, and horror. When my dad's turn came to endure these awful procedures no amount of caring and explaining from the nurses would help him. His memory did last but a split second. Even if they told him what was about to happen, he would forget before the sensation of the horrid procedure.
I began to cry and to pray. I prayed so hard that God would heal my father. I wanted my father back more than anything. He was my rock and my anchor. He was the one with whom I'd managed to forge a happy, healthy parent / child relationship. So what if I was in my thirties when it happened... at least I finally had it. Even now, four years later, I can't help but cry when I think of losing him. I wanted God to give him back to me more than anything.
But I knew it was unrealistic. As I sat and listened to man in the next bed, I began to pray that if God couldn't see His way clear to give me my dad back... could He at least take him without suffering. Could He please just let him drift off peacefully without pain and without suffering?
I prayed that prayer every day for the last three and half months of my dad's life. "Please God. Please give me my father back, but if You're going to take him... please take him quickly and peacefully."
A few days before my father died, he had a seizure. In the emergency room they discovered he had a septic infection. They put him in the hospice unit to stabilize the infection so I could take him home. They expected he had several more weeks -- maybe even months before he would die.
While dad was in the hospice unit, my then husband had a stroke. He was admitted to a hospital about 45 minutes away from the hospital where my dad was.
The day my ex was discharged from the hospital, he was given orders to get several out-patient follow-up tests. The hospital staff had made arrangements for us to get the tests near the hospital. I spent the whole day driving the ex around.
At one point, I was driving and thinking about my dad. I was thinking that I needed to let him go. I needed to tell him that when it's time for him to pass on, it would be OK. I needed to tell him that I would miss him and that I wanted him to stay; but I knew I was being selfish. I would be fine without him and when it was his time -- he should go peacefully with God. Suddenly I heard my dad's voice as clear as if he were in the car with me. He told me that he loved me and he thanked me for loving him. He said he was glad to hear that I finally realized I would be OK -- because he knew I would be fine. The voice was so real and so strong I looked around the car to see where it was coming from. I even asked the ex if heard anything.
After the ex's last test, he said he was hungry. I looked at my watch; it was 5:05 PM. I hadn't been to see my dad that day I was itchy to get there. But I heard my dad say, again as clear as if he were next to me, he said, "You've got to take care of your own family now. Elizabeth needs dinner. Take care of them. I'm fine." So, we had dinner before going to the hospital.
We got to the hospital a little after 7PM. He was sleeping so peacefully. I grabbed his toe through the blankets and gave it a little shake... "Hey, wake-up! Your granddaughter is here to see you." I said almost laughing. A woman walked into the room.
"We've been trying to get in touch with you all day." I felt tense. "Late this morning we realized that you're father didn't have much time left and we tried to call you to come down and say good-bye." The tears were welling up in my eyes now. "But don't worry," she said, "It was very peaceful. Take your time saying good-bye." she said as she walked out of the room. I collapsed on the bed in tears.
A little while later the Chaplin came in. "I sat with your dad all day," she told me. "I've been doing this for a long time and this was the most peaceful death I've ever witnessed," she said with amazement in her voice. "It was the oddest thing," she went on, "I sat next to him holding his had all day. He just drifted off to sleep. When I was sure he gone, I got up to leave and I felt him give me hug as I walked out of the door. It was as if he were comforting me," the Chaplin said obviously puzzled and yet believing.
As the Chaplin started leave, I asked her, "What time did he die?"
"It was 5:05 when I left the room." she said.
So, my pray was answered. My dad died without any pain meds. He died without suffering. His death was the most peaceful death the hospice Chaplin had ever seen. Given everything the doctors had said... this was indeed a miracle.
Now I find myself again praying for miracles. I really don't know why God chooses to perform some and not others. I'm totally clueless how he chooses. But I do believe He answers prayers. We may not always get the answer we want... or the miracle we so desperately think we need. But through it all, God is there. He is taking care of us... all of us.
