I pray every morning at Hope. It’s a very informal prayer, a free verse
conversation that I dominate far too much.
I’m still learning to listen. I’m
still learning to let go of my problems and lay them at God’s feet. Every now and then, I seem to get it
right. Everything around me grows quiet
and still and peace washes over me.
It is not the only time I pray during the day. Like the three-year-old who kneels by her bed
and slaps her hands together and closes her eyes real tight, I say a more traditional
prayer in the morning before I leave and at night before I go to bed.
I pray for four former students, one because she once
experienced a miracle and I want many more to come to her as needed and the
other three because they need prayer and will need prayer every day for rest of
their lives and God has called me to stand for them.
I pray for my friends, many of whom have names beginning
with “J,” so they all roll easily off the tongue.
And there are a few that I give the twice-a-day special. I pray for them morning and night every
day. One of these people is my pastor,
Pastor Debbie, and another is her father, Russell, who has been in my prayers
every day for more than two years.
It was right around the time I took my first medical leave
in 2011 that Russell was diagnosed with a recurrence of cancer. Where once Russell and I saw each other three
or four times a week at church, at Centering Prayer, at Wednesday night
potlucks and Alpha courses, now, with both of us facing illness, we were lucky
to bump into each other every few months or so.
I started my 365 Days of Hope journey last summer and
Russell became a daily follower. It
became a way for us to stay in touch.
Every time I saw him “like” a picture I had taken on Facebook, I
breathed a sigh of relief. Russell is
still hanging in there.
Last week, the Facebook “likes” stopped. Word spread Saturday that Hospice had been
called, that Russell was struggling to breathe.
Yesterday he took his last breath.
I have been blessed in my life to have so many friends and
family healthy and fit. It’s been a very
long time since I’ve had to deal with the death of someone I cared deeply for,
someone gifted with a generous personality, a disarming smile and a bear hug
that could heal any little thing keeping you awake at night.
I first met Russell nearly four years ago at an Alpha
course. I was new to the church and
terrified of strangers. I did a lot of
listening that night as I tried to memorize names and faces.
That following Sunday I was standing in line at communion,
concentrating on the back of the person in front of me, lost in my own world,
when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
My first thought was an incredulous, “Who is touching my
shoulder during communion?”
I turned around and there was Russell, smiling and
waving. “How are you?” he whispered.
“Good,” I whispered back.
I was very confused. I remembered
Russell from the other night, but we really hadn’t spoken and yet here he was
treating me like an old friend, so excited to see me he couldn’t wait to say
hello.
I had already fallen in love with the church, but it wasn’t
until Russell tapped my shoulder that I knew why. Russell was representative of everyone I had
seen at Hope. Here was a place where all
that was broken in me could be healed by strangers who embraced me as family.
Over the next few months, I would learn many things about
Russell. He was both a thoughtful and
engaged listener and a masterful storyteller.
He had a great laugh. When the
two of us worked one day printing postcards off the church computer, it was
Russell’s quiet strength that kept me from heaving the malfunctioning computer
out the door.
Last night, as I began my prayers, I realized that for the
first time in a long time I would not be praying for Russell. It hurt.
Not only had I lost his physical presence, but I had lost a solid anchor
in my prayers. Among the long list of
people I pray for, Russell belonged to a group right in the middle. Without him, the prayer seemed to fall apart,
and I stumbled my way to the finish and Amen.
This, though, is the power of prayer. Prayer grows in strength each time you pray. The people you pray for become a part of you
because suddenly you’re actively invested in their lives. You cry when they cry. You rejoice when they rejoice and you grieve
horribly when they are lost.
Russell’s greatest gift was that he was able to impact my
life even when both of us were sick, by simply hitting a button on Facebook.
There were times I thought about stopping 365 Days of Hope, but Russell’s “like”
reminded me that I wasn’t doing this project just for me. These pictures had become windows of Hope and
hope for many people who could not get to the church.
Russell inspired me.
He moved me to keep going.
And the beauty of inspiration is that it lasts long after we
are gone.
This morning, Russell was still in my prayers. Only this time, I took him with me to Hope.
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