Dearest Christopher,
I often wondered when you were young, How does a child who has such a hard time coming into relationship with his family, whom he can see, learn to have a relationship with God above, whom he cannot see?
This greatly concerned me, because my relationship with God is what had sustained me through many trials, even those that concerned you.
Fortunately, your dad felt strongly that this was going to happen in God’s own way and in God’s own time, and that we simply needed to trust Him to lead His little lamb. As usual, he was right.
I’d like to tell you a little about your journey.
In previous letters, I’ve told you about your character book and our attempts to communicate moral truths to you, like honesty and dishonesty, kindness and meanness, obedience and disobedience. We did this through abstract art, creating shapes, colors, and scenes that produced either peace or discordant feelings. We memorized Scripture together, but for many years I wondered whether any of it was really meant anything to your little mind.
Then, around the time you were ten, I began finding children’s Bible storybooks scattered around the house. Their pages worn and curled from being turned so many times. You’d sit with one finger tracing the pictures, muttering whispered comments as though you were stepping into the pictures themselves.
One of your favorite books illustrated the book of Acts. You loved Paul’s shipwreck, the snake that bit him without harming him, and so many other stories. You pored over those pages with question after question, bringing the stories alive—not only for yourself, but for the rest of us too.
Every morning you joined our family devotions. We always began by asking, “What is everyone thankful for?” We started with the youngest and worked our way up. Many days we simply skipped over you because you didn’t seem to know what we were talking about.
Then one evening you surprised us by saying, “I’m thankful that Sister Amy had her baby.”
A few eyebrows lifted around the room. I caught your dad’s eye, and then it dawned on me. We had all been praying for Sister Amy to have her baby.
While we prayed, you usually sat quietly with head cocked to the side, watching each face as though trying to understand the invisible conversation taking place around you. Sometimes I prayed specific prayers out loud for you to hear and understand. Other times I simply worshiped God or prayed from my own heart, but I never actually heard you pray.
You did, however, always have prayer requests.
Much of your childhood was overshadowed by my dad’s battle with cancer. After our thanksgivings we’d ask, “Does anyone have a prayer request?”
Nearly every day your voice came before anyone else’s.
“Can we pray for Granddaddy?” Sometimes your requests were wonderfully specific.
“Can we pray that Granddaddy will sleep tonight?”
And the next morning my dad called and said, “I had the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a month.”
I stood there holding the phone, remembering your request from the evening before and realizing that you seemed to have an intuition about these things sometimes.
The first time I experienced your prayers firsthand came shortly after I had injured my back. It had been debilitating. For weeks I could barely walk, and after countless exercises, visits to the chiropractor, and physical therapy, I was finally beginning to improve. Still, I dreaded the long hours we would soon spend riding in a borrowed RV on a family trip to the Northwest.
That Sunday there had been a powerful move of God in our meeting. The Lord gave us a new faith to pray with confidence.
“Mountain, be removed!”
I listened with faith rising in my heart for all kinds of things, but strangely enough, I never even thought about my own back. Many people received prayer and were touched that day.
After church we hurried home, gathering snacks, shoes, socks, and camping gear into the RV. Before long we were rolling down the highway. The constant chatter of you seven kids became a competition with the rattle of dishes inside the cupboards and the endless creaking of every joint in the RV. Outside the windows, fields slowly gave way to west Texas desert. Everyone buzzed with excitement over the relatives we would visit, the campfires we would build, and the adventures ahead.
Quietly, though, I wondered how my back would hold up. Suddenly I felt your warm breath on the back of my neck as you leaned forward between the seats.
“Mommy, is your back okay?”
“Well, it’s not well,” I answered, “but it’s feeling much better than it was a few weeks ago.”
You looked puzzled.
“Why didn’t you say, ‘Mountain be removed’?”
For a moment I was confused. Then I remembered the message from church only hours before.
“Well… I should have, shouldn’t I?”
Without another word, you reached forward and laid your hands on my back. Then you prayed the first prayer I’d ever heard you pray aloud.
“Mountain be removed. God, heal Mommy’s back. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
I looked over at your dad behind the wheel. Even behind his sunglasses I could see him wiping his eyes, and I swallowed down the tears myself.
At the next gas station, the Texas heat practically withered me as I climbed out of the motorhome. I stood upright without thinking, and stopped. The pain was gone from my back. I was standing straight for the first time in weeks!
When I told you, you weren’t surprised in the least. “Yes,” you said matter-of-factly. “I prayed, ‘Mountain be removed.’”
That evening, after we tucked you into bed, I paced beneath the stars in the campground while talking to my parents on the phone. Through the receiver I could hear them weeping, rejoicing, and thanking God. It would not be the first time, or the last, that God used your prayers.
A few months later Sister Bonnie called me, after she’d been taking you to sing in nursing homes for a few months.
There was a young woman there who was severely physically and mentally handicapped. She had never spoken or smiled. She couldn’t even keep her tongue inside her mouth and didn’t seem to notice people.
Wheelchairs lined the walls of the home, but when you saw her, you simply smiled and said,
“She is very cute.”
You leaned close enough that for her to hear your words and prayed for her. She smiled and tried to speak to you. As you sang Jesus Loves Me and I’ve Got Jesus on My Mind, and she began to sway and wiggle to the music with a great big smile on her face.
Watching you so easily believe, I began to wonder if perhaps children sometimes believe what the rest of us have spent years trying to understand, that God is good and that He does move mountains.
Just last year I saw that same faith again. Daddy was in Egypt, and I was waiting for three babies to be born. During family prayer time I asked, as usual,
“Does anyone have any thanksgivings?”
To my surprise you answered, “I’m thankful that Sister Teresa is going to have her baby on Saturday.” It was an unusual thanksgiving because she hadn’t had the baby yet!
“You think she’s going to have her baby on Saturday?” I asked.
With a sheepish smile you nodded, but didn’t elaborate. “I do.”
Saturday morning Teresa called to say she was in labor. As a midwife, my upcoming births are often part of our family prayers, so praying for her wasn’t unusual, but the timing sure was!
And, of course, she had her baby that Saturday.
May God give us all a childlike faith.
May you never lose yours, and may He continue to work miracles through the willing channel of your life.
With all my love,
Mom