Yanking My Prayer Chain

The three of us crested the long steep grade in southern Ohio. Though it is classified as only a foothill, my back and I had to disagree.

This was a meet-up hike of ten nature-loving souls, and instead of moving forward convoy-like on the trail, we nearly always broke into small groups.

My group of three had enough altitude to see over into the Ohio River Valley. And the large group of rain clouds moving in our direction.

I know how to deal with a threat of rain. I dig into my pack for my Frogg Toggs rain suit. Murphy’s Law states that if I prepare myself for the rain, it will go another direction. I’ve seen that happen too many times not to put some stock in it.

A member of our group had another idea, though. He said a prayer that we would stay dry. He was appealing to Someone with far more clout than Murphy, whoever Murphy is. 

The final third of our trio introduced a new angle, however. What if a farmer in a hollow between ourselves and the rain clouds was praying for much-needed rain? Any prayer from us would war against his prayers. 

Before I could devise a coherent objection to this idea, I thought of some of the times I’d been a prayer warrior myself. Many of my pleas are for unimportant things, at least in the big picture. Like for two runs in the bottom of the ninth to at least tie the game. I’m sure, though, just as many people were praying for my Reds to go three-up-three-down.

Anyway, one of us abstained in deference to the farmer, one of us prayed anyway, and one of us put on his Frogg Toggs.

We started hiking again, now on my favorite part of the hill. Even going downhill, though, I got sweaty in my “breathable” rain gear. Anything to hold back the rain.

I wasn’t finished thinking about prayer wars before a new religious topic came up in the conversation. Wise from past hiking experience, I checked first to make sure a blue blaze was in sight. It’s easy to miss a turn and end up two miles off-trail discussing religion. (Possibly in that hollow with the aforementioned farmer.)

The lady who wanted to let the farmer get the soaking—and I guess us too—rattled my mind with another new prayer concept: We have a prayer limit. Even if there was no farmer involved, she wasn’t gonna waste a prayer to stay dry.

Was she just trying to get a reaction? Possibly. It worked. 

I just knew that couldn’t be true. If so, I had used 1,000 of my allotment praying Bonnie would say yes when I proposed. God answered my prayer, maybe because he was just getting tired of hearing it every five minutes. Kidding.

I asked my hiking friend what she used her prayers on. She said her family, friends, and needy and hurting people in the world. That was good. I felt a twinge of guilt when I thought of some of the things I pray for. Things that often revolve around myself.

My thoughts were abruptly redirected when we rounded the bend and saw the other hikers eating their lunch on a fallen log that couldn’t have been more perfectly placed.

I prayed before I ate, not worried about depleting my prayer ration. If there really is a limit on saying grace before I eat, I’m in trouble. 

No sooner had I opened up my crackers and tuna that large drops of rain began to splatter on the canopy overhead. It wasn’t long before the skies dumped buckets on us. A rare fail of Murphy’s Law. My suit repelled most of the rain, but my lunch didn’t fare as well.

The rain stopped about the time we finished eating. The sun came out and the rain suit came off. I felt as if I was daring the rain clouds to come back. Anything to help that farmer out, though.

The groups rotated in the afternoon and the discussion of prayer was ended. 

Though the afternoon conversation went other directions, my mind was still thinking about prayer. I’m sure there’s no limit, but I suppose God sometimes wishes there was.

Some Christians have a habit—and I confess I’ve been guilty—of starting a “911 prayer chain” when any scandal comes up about a church member. We call “our people” and, in the name of a prayer request, report what’s going on with Martin or Sally. Then our people will pass it on to their people.

I’m learning that the fewer people there are who know about an unfortunate event, the quicker it will get cleaned up. 

I’ve jumped off of the gossip train, and I pray I won’t board it again. Even if there is a prayer limit, that one’s worth it.

There’s another way I “pray” sometimes that I’m sure tests God’s patience.  That occurred when a church elder asked me if I would like to head up a new program. It happened to be far out of my comfort zone, even though I was probably qualified for it. I told him I would pray about it. 

My decision was already made when the word children popped up, but nevertheless I told him I would pray. I just needed time to think of a good excuse for saying no, disguised as a pleasant-sounding religious answer.

I have a feeling if I would’ve prayed about it for real, I’d have been in charge of that program the following week.

And then there are those prayers which sound like letters to Santa Claus. I’m sure God loves those, too.

There’s a plethora of prayers in the Bible as well as formulas and guidelines for praying. At this stage of my life, however, I need to keep things simple, so I’ve boiled them down into three categories:

TALKING TO GOD. I thank him over and over for all his blessings. I know I’m close to him when I even thank him for unpleasant things. I remind God that I know that all glory and honor belong to him. And I don’t ask for anything for me during this time.

PRAYING FOR OTHERS. First, I remember those in my tiny circle, and then I pray for my town, state, country, and world. 

PRAYING FOR MYSELF. I ask God‘s forgiveness for my mistakes as I go along. I can’t let unconfessed sins pile up or they start to stink.

I pray for my attitude. It needs a tweaking almost every day. I need help not to become a grumpy old man. In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis reminds me that’s not a way to go into eternity. (Sorry, that sounds morbid, but it’s something to think about.)

OK, I’ll ask for stuff, too. God knows what I need before I ask. But I believe it’s good to regularly acknowledge my dependence on him.

Jesus prayed consistently to his father throughout all of his earthly ministry. I’m no genius, but I can take a hint.

I’m certainly not a prayer champion. Some days I’m so distracted I hardly even talk to God. And I don’t do well praying for extended periods of time. Henri Nouwen says entering solitude makes his inner life feel like “monkeys jumping around in a banana tree.” I get it.

I find that generally the best way for me to pray is a sentence or two in real time as the day goes by.

I’m getting ready for a mission trip to Ghana. I’ll be upping my prayers in all three categories. And I would appreciate yours if you feel led to do that.

Surely there’s no prayer limit. And I can pray for my needs even when it might encroach on somebody else’s. I have to give God some credit. He knows how to sort them out.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s way more I don’t know about prayer than I do. But I do know it’s my spiritual lifeline to God. I need guidance to stay on the right path. I am easily distracted.

I’m not sure how I’ll pray the next time I’m in a rain situation on a hike. Maybe I’ll be less selfish and pray for the farmer. I might even forgo the rain suit to try to increase his odds.

Feature photo by Олександр К on Unsplash