In the predawn darkness, the house is quiet. The snow-blanket that’s tucked us in has come, bearing gifts. For boys, a school delay is not nothing. And they slumber.
Beside me, Mr. Schrock is holding his phone, checking news, scanning emails, reading messages. And I slumber. Then suddenly in the darkness, he speaks. “Jamison’s sick.”
From half a world away, a message: “I’m in a hurry. Deposit money.” And then, “I’m sick. Please pray.”
From my warm, cozy bed in our small American town, I do what I do when there’s trouble–I tell Jesus. “My boy in his tent? He needs help.”
The house begins to awaken. Feet pound up, then down the stairs, and my Keurig machine is a-brewing. Just up to the square, a quick left, and it’s there; our neighborhood clinic will soon be open. But Lesotho, I know, is not North America. And Lesotho’s an awfully long way. Mother’s praying.
It’s time, now, to prepare for the day. I step into the closet to put something away, turn around, and my eye catches here. On this letter. In the War Room that Someone Short commandeered from his mother.
I’ve brushed past it for months, not really seeing it, but this morning I stop in my tracks, and I read it.
“I just pray for Jamison that he will be save in Albangey (Albania) and make that satin (Satan) will run away from (him as fast) as he can so that Jamison will be save and make it so that he can tell a (gazillions) of people about God and I just pray that he will get good freinds so he will know people all over the world and that he will respect God amen.”
On a cold day in February, Brother’s sick, and Little’s prayed. Prayed in faith long before need arose.
I keep reading. “…and I just pray for Mark that he will become a Christan. Just touch his heart and so he will walk back to you so he will not die as not a Christan, so he will run into your arms amen. And I just pray for Andrew that he will come crawling back to you and I just pray for his family that they will be a Christan too so they will not go to (hell). Make all what I just prayed for. Amen.”
That boy! His heart. His love for the lost, and his care for his family and our friends. What a gift.
On a lined sheet of paper, I see a heart that God loves traced in ink, child’s hand, letters sprawling. Childlike faith.
He may be the youngest in our Band of Four Brothers, but this day, it’s a child who is leading. Little’s teaching.
He’s teaching his mama ’bout simplicity in prayer, and perhaps the first lesson is this: that God’s good.
That He’s good and He’s kind and He’s love and He’s big. He’s so big, He can do aaannyyything. Yes, He can.
Perhaps it’s us grownups who’ve got it all wrong. Who tangle things up that are simple, make them hard. Maybe prayer’s just that easy–you know where to go. You know Who to ask; know He fixes.
So you bring Him what’s broken, whether it’s hearts or it’s toys, ’cause that’s what you do with a Dad. Bring Him pieces.
Whatever’s paining you today; what’s concerning or frightening, I know where to take it —where to leave it.
You follow Little S., and you tell it to Him. In simple, plain words, you can spell it. You know Who You’re asking, that He’s good and He’s kind. That He’s big and He’s love, and He fixes. And that’s it.
“Make all what I just prayed for (happen). Amen.”
In Lesotho, there’s a piece of my heart, sportin’ his father’s blue eyes, and his name’s been carried in prayer. To the One Who Fixes. Now, Father of Lights, “make it happen.” Amen.