The Power of Prayer
It was the coldest day of the year.
Not record setting cold mind you, but cold enough that being out for any more
than five minutes would instantly remind you that some places on the Earth are
not meant for human habitation. And yet there he was, lying on the street
amidst three to four inches of fresh snow. Obviously wearing clothes that he'd
worn for far too many years, he was just sitting there with a rusty coffee can
acting like it was just any other day. Walking up to him, all I could think to
myself was "please don't be dead, please don't be dead."
Getting closer I saw him blink. "Oh
thank God." He watched me with hopeless eyes. I could tell though that he was
silently hoping for some miracle, something to pull him off of the street, something
to save him. "Are you ok?" I asked not knowing what else to say becoming caught
up in the gravity of the moment. "Do I look ok?" he responded with the sort of
desperate intonation you hear from a mother on her deathbed. Looking into his
coffee can, I saw the remnant guilty feelings of passerby before me, maybe
three or four dollars. "I'll pray for you." I said closing my eyes and putting
my hand on his shoulder.
After a few brief words, I stood
up, adjusted my heavy coat, and walked away. I remember his pleading eyes
following me as I left, my own darting back every now and then to see his still
staring. "God will save him." I assured myself.
I made it a point to pass that spot
everyday to check in and pray with him. It was strange, he never spoke after
that first day. Perhaps it was because he was numb to his own suffering or
maybe unsure how to respond to my prayers. Either way, I had to keep trying to
help him. About three weeks later, the cold had lifted and spring was blinking its
eyes. I turned the corner on my usual route and he was gone. "God surely must
have saved him." Were my thoughts walking past the spot I was so familiar with
now.
As a part of a church program to
help inmates find hope in prison, I volunteered every now and then to go down
to the county jail and pray with the inmates there. Walking through the prison
doors and past the security station was always such a strange feeling. They
treat you like an inmate coming through. Wand waved up and down your sides,
pockets patted to ensure you're not carrying any dangerous items like keys or
paperclips, you were treated like a threat every time.
Regardless, the guard escorted me
down a narrow and dingy concrete hallway, unlocking a room marked 'visitation.'
"Thanks" I responded with some level of resentment at being treated like a
criminal, the guard willfully ignoring any attempts to care. Before me was a row
of chairs, mostly empty ones in front of thick wall of Plexiglas. The room was
dimly lit and uncomfortably cold, perhaps to ensure that visitors didn't get
any ideas about the comforts of prison. This was not a welcoming place.
Looking down at my list, I searched
for the first name and corresponding number. "Ok. Number seven it is. Let's see
here..." Finding number seven, I made my way down the row past a disheveled woman
crying with a phone to her ear, most likely talking to a husband she hasn't had
the chance to embrace in many years. Scooting out the chair and casually
looking up to see the new inmate for the first time, I could not believe my
eyes.
There he was, tattered clothes now
exchanged for an orange jumpsuit, but exactly the same nonetheless. I'm sure my
mouth was open, a clear sign of my shock at seeing him. He simply raised his
head and looked at me knowingly. Like a blank canvas with the hopes and dreams
of some famous painter, his face was knowing and hopeless as ever. I picked up
the phone and motioned for him to do the same. He seemed reluctant to grab it,
but perhaps curiosity eventually got the better of him so he did.
"What happened?" I said almost
accusingly, as if he should know better than to end up in a place like this.
His only response was a few blinks to punctuate the silence. Letting out a
heavy sigh and slowly realizing that I wasn't about to get anywhere I grew a
bit frustrated. "Well listen, you can tell me what happened at least. I went
looking for you and you weren't at your spot anymore. I prayed for you every
day." Still nothing. His eyes searched me, darting to and fro like minnows in a
fish tank, but still ever silent. "I'll pray for you." I said softly, hoping to
convey the message that I cared and could be trusted.
I went back to the prison every day
for several weeks, meeting with him over and over, repeating the same silence
every visit. Regardless, each visit ended with a prayer. My only hope was that perhaps
he would find his miracle. "God will save him." I assured myself.
Three weeks passed and suddenly he
was no longer on my list. The guards couldn't tell me where he went because of
backwards privacy laws but I could search his prisoner number online. He wasn't
there anymore. With that realization, I returned to his spot on the street to
again find it empty. The street seemed lonelier now even though two other men
had taken his place, curled up on the street like question marks.
The days passed and I continued to
pray for him until his memory, dulled by the newness of every day, faded from
my mind. It wasn't until several months later when I walked into a coffee shop
down on fifth street that I remembered him again. The shop was busy, bustling
with customers and barista's buzzing back and forth, chomping at the bit to get
their caffeine fix.
There he was! Behind the counter,
wearing that ever familiar Starbucks uniform was the man I saw on the street,
the man I saw in prison. He was different now though. He'd shaven his beard
off. His clothes were clean and pressed. He was smiling too, chatting away with
the customer in front of him. I simply couldn't believe it. "My prayers worked!"
I yelled in my own head over and over. My heart pounding, I made my way over to
him in, impatiently waiting in the line of customers ahead of me.
It came my turn and I couldn't help
but ask "Do you remember me?" "What?" He said looking up at me, his face
instantly changing from that happy smile to the same solemn look I had come to
remember him by. Knowing that I had just elicited an emotion in him that I
would not be keen to repeat I put my head down. He slid a coffee underneath my
downward gaze and pointed to a table in the corner of the room seemingly
forgotten by the other customers in the store. "Ok." I said reverently.
Taking my seat in the corner of the
shop, I just sat there and watched him work. He had a way with people.
Obviously something he had picked up from panhandling for survival. He moved
gracefully back and forth from customer to coffee, customer to coffee. He
tapped his coworkers shoulder and pointed to me. With a shake of her head he
took off his apron and made his way over. I couldn't help but get excited to
finally talk to him.
He sat down in front of me and took
a deep breath. Obviously he was at the end of a long shift and sitting down was
quite the relief. "Listen" I said pleadingly. "I want you to know that I prayed
for you every day you were out in the street and every day you were in prison. And
look! It seems God has answered my prayers!
With that same gesture he had in
the prison, he softly raised his head to look at me. Staring at me for a few
moments, he finally spoke. "No. No he did not." Scrunching my face in surprise "What
do you mean? Here you are off the street and out of prison. God most surely
answered my prayers."
Letting out another deep breathe he
spoke yet again. "You think mumbling under your breath was the best way to help
me? You think that going home to your warm bed and saying a few words was any
consolation to me while I almost froze to death on the street? Do you even know
why I went to jail? Every night after you came to visit me I would go down to
third street and sell meth so that I could eat for the day, so that I could
make sure I had socks warm enough to stop me from getting hypothermia. Eventually,
I sold to an undercover cop and easy as that...prison. Not once did you drop so
much as a quarter into my cup. Not once did you offer me a meal. Not once did
you notice that I wasn't even wearing a coat, that I didn't have a blanket."
He looked back to the counter,
realizing he had already taken too much time. "No. You're prayers did not save
me. When I got out of jail I went to a rehab and got myself clean. After rehab
I had no place to go so I went back to the street for a few days before getting
into a work program. I cleaned my clothes at the Laundromat every day before
work because they would get dirty from sleeping on the ground. Every. Day.
He stood up. I wanted to say something
but in my shame, words escaped me. I looked to him frantically trying to find
the words to defend myself and yet nothing came out. He spoke again, this time
in that tone that says 'response not warranted'. Putting his apron back on he
said "You won't take this from me. I did this. Me. I did. You want to help
somebody? Stop talking to yourself and go out there and do something."
And that was it. He walked back to the counter
and the smile returned to his face. The next day I went out to his spot and
spoke with the two gentlemen now taking up residence in his old home. Kneeling
down to them silently, I extended an arm out to each, cups of soup in hand. "Everything
is going to be ok." I said knowingly.