Adventures in Prayer #3: God Hears Us!

I don’t believe anything happens purely by chance. I believe God speaks to us all the time through the people and events in our lives. Sometimes His message is difficult to translate, but most of the time we’re simply not looking for it. Sometimes He practically hits us over the head, and we still don’t get it. Last week he bopped me so hard I got it.

Keeping in shape has been difficult for me since the local racquetball club and spa I’d been going to for over twenty years burned down last year. For years I have also been occasionally going for long walks over my lunch hour. The frequency of these had also gone into decline as the arthritis in my knees grew worse. Nevertheless I did not want to quit. Walking for relaxation and meditation had been one of the most sublime joys in my life. And modest exercise like walking is good for arthritis. Last week I looked at the forecast and decided that I would make sure I had a car on Tuesday (dropping off my wife at work instead of the other way around) and go for my “usual” three and a half mile walk on the Osaugie Trail, which meandered along St. Louis and Allouez Bays.

I’d made plans like this before, only to find some excuse not to go. It had been almost two months since my last good walk. But even as the bright sunshine outside my office window fulfilled its promise and beckoned me, I sagged back into my chair. I got up at five o’clock weekday mornings, and I always seemed to be tired. Once again I toyed with the idea of not going. There would be other days. My body just did not want to move. Yet I knew that I’d made plans for this. I knew few days were left that would be that nice. Somehow I knew that if I did not go, I would be greatly diminished. Each day had found me running the white flag a little farther up the pole.

In the end, there really was no choice. I changed into my old Reeboks, drove out to the parking lot, checked my watch and set out. My route out and back was about three and a half miles and I used to be able to do it in exactly an hour at my normal pace. The past couple of years, I had slowed down a few minutes.

As I started on my way, the old shoes squeaking, I knew there was another reason I had come. I needed to pray, and walking was one of the best ways I knew how. I would not only pray along the way, but the walk itself would be my prayer, my humble offering. Anything we do can take the form of a prayer, but most of the time I am too distracted, too engrossed in worldly things to act in prayerfulness. Today I needed this walk and this prayer too badly.

My route began with a beautiful view across a sunlit St. Louis Bay and the Barker’s Island Marina, to the long spit of Minnesota called Park Point, which sheltered the bay from the waves of Lake Superior. The trail dipped down behind several houses, then up, then down again and across a railroad yard and past a couple of grain elevators. There was not much activity down there anymore, a remote control engine idling, waiting for orders from its distant engineer. The whine of a saw came from the direction of an elevator. I often wondered what people still did there. Along the way I had been praying for my family, asking for help and strength and guidance and healing.

I am a worrier. I suppose that’s because my faith is weak. I’d prayed for the same things many times, and if I had true faith that my prayers would be answered, maybe I would lighten up. Maybe the mountains would move. I’d read somewhere that we should only ask God for something once. He’s not deaf. There is no need to ask again. Yet, it seemed my prayers too often went unheard. Sometimes I’d pray for the best while in abject fear of the worst. Fear and doubt didn’t stop me. I’d pray and then I’d pray and ask again.

A flock of geese cruised the quiet waters on the near side of Hog Island, which was scarcely an island, separated from the mainland only by a stretch of brown marsh grass. How good it was to see these beautiful birds. Their seasonal migration was a miracle of sorts, one of those things in nature that reinforced my shaky faith. My faith needed all the reinforcement it could get. I listened to my body, to my breath, to my knees and feet and hips, to see how it was doing. So far, no complaints. I remembered to be thankful for that, for my relative good health that made this walk possible.

The trail swung down through a huge parking lot where fisherman parked their trailers. There were still a few this day plying the big water for lake trout, salmon or walleye. The lot was built under the shadow of a huge, abandoned ore dock, which had been for some reason left intact from the trail to the end, perhaps a thousand feet out into the water, an enormous wooden monolith paying tribute to busier days on the waterfront.

I continued to pray. It might be said that repetitive prayer confesses a lack of faith that our earlier prayers would be answered. Perhaps. It might also be said that prayers uttered in fear and worry might go unheard simply due to the lack of faith in which they were said. Perhaps. I had no answers for these things. Did I believe a prayer uttered in absolute faith would be heard? Yes. Could I utter such a prayer? No. So I prayed too that God might grant me such faith. I desperately needed to put all my faith and trust in Him that all would be well. I was at my soul’s end, torturing myself about things over which I had no control. Why could I simply not believe?

The trail crossed an old railroad bridge spanning the Nemadji River and continued across another marsh some twenty feet below. A lone cyclist passed me. There were few people out, for such a beautiful day. I began to feel the walk in my joints, but that was expected. This walk was far better than languishing in my chair back at the office. At last I reached that crack in the asphalt which was my turning point. A mile and three quarters, and I was ready for more.

On the way back I began to say a rosary in my head. The rosary is one of the most repetitive prayers there is, so it was difficult to concentrate on the meaning of each word of each Hail Mary. I kept at it. Each step became heavier, and soreness in my knees was setting in, but I would make it without a major problem. I thought of the missionaries that had first come here almost four hundred years ago. How much more modest was my mission this day. How unshakable had been their faith. As the imaginary rosary beads slipped through my fingers, I prayed again for faith. Without faith, how could I be of service to anyone? Of what use were my unheard prayers?

When I got back to the car I looked at my watch again. The walk had taken me sixty-five minutes, which seemed OK, since I’d still walked three and a half miles in that time. I was tired but not tired enough not to be satisfied with what I’d done. I hoped God had in some small way appreciated my offering. As I backed the car out, I saw a bumper sticker on the back of the Toyota Highlander parked next to me. Pray it said in large letters, but I couldn’t read the smaller letters that followed. Pulling forward, I swung closer. They read: God Will Hear You.

Tears poured into my eyes. There were no coincidences. If I had faith in anything, it was that. God speaks to us every moment of every day. We simply have to pay attention. His words might come from a bumper sticker. They might come from the lips of a stranger, or from a sunrise or the flight of a bird or the fall of a leaf. But for those of us weak in faith, in His infinite kindness, sometimes He is not so subtle.