{"sf1_id":822037,"sf2_id":null,"title":"The Power of Prayer","author":"ENFPDreamer","words":1810,"posted_at":"2015-02-21T18:58:00.000Z","tags":["Philosophy","Real Life","Short Story"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/822037-the-power-of-prayer","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/view/822037","image_url":"https://www.sofurryfiles.com/std/thumb?page=822037\u0026ext=.jpg","description":"","content":"             It was the coldest day of the year.\nNot record setting cold mind you, but cold enough that being out for any more\nthan five minutes would instantly remind you that some places on the Earth are\nnot meant for human habitation. And yet there he was, lying on the street\namidst three to four inches of fresh snow. Obviously wearing clothes that he'd\nworn for far too many years, he was just sitting there with a rusty coffee can\nacting like it was just any other day. Walking up to him, all I could think to\nmyself was \"please don't be dead, please don't be dead.\"\nGetting closer I saw him blink. \"Oh\nthank God.\" He watched me with hopeless eyes. I could tell though that he was\nsilently hoping for some miracle, something to pull him off of the street, something\nto save him. \"Are you ok?\" I asked not knowing what else to say becoming caught\nup in the gravity of the moment. \"Do I look ok?\" he responded with the sort of\ndesperate intonation you hear from a mother on her deathbed. Looking into his\ncoffee can, I saw the remnant guilty feelings of passerby before me, maybe\nthree or four dollars. \"I'll pray for you.\" I said closing my eyes and putting\nmy hand on his shoulder. \nAfter a few brief words, I stood\nup, adjusted my heavy coat, and walked away. I remember his pleading eyes\nfollowing me as I left, my own darting back every now and then to see his still\nstaring. \"God will save him.\" I assured myself. \nI made it a point to pass that spot\neveryday to check in and pray with him. It was strange, he never spoke after\nthat first day. Perhaps it was because he was numb to his own suffering or\nmaybe unsure how to respond to my prayers. Either way, I had to keep trying to\nhelp him. About three weeks later, the cold had lifted and spring was blinking its\neyes. I turned the corner on my usual route and he was gone. \"God surely must\nhave saved him.\" Were my thoughts walking past the spot I was so familiar with\nnow. \nAs a part of a church program to\nhelp inmates find hope in prison, I volunteered every now and then to go down\nto the county jail and pray with the inmates there. Walking through the prison\ndoors and past the security station was always such a strange feeling. They\ntreat you like an inmate coming through. Wand waved up and down your sides,\npockets patted to ensure you're not carrying any dangerous items like keys or\npaperclips, you were treated like a threat every time. \nRegardless, the guard escorted me\ndown a narrow and dingy concrete hallway, unlocking a room marked 'visitation.'\n\"Thanks\" I responded with some level of resentment at being treated like a\ncriminal, the guard willfully ignoring any attempts to care. Before me was a row\nof chairs, mostly empty ones in front of thick wall of Plexiglas. The room was\ndimly lit and uncomfortably cold, perhaps to ensure that visitors didn't get\nany ideas about the comforts of prison. This was not a welcoming place. \nLooking down at my list, I searched\nfor the first name and corresponding number. \"Ok. Number seven it is. Let's see\nhere...\" Finding number seven, I made my way down the row past a disheveled woman\ncrying with a phone to her ear, most likely talking to a husband she hasn't had\nthe chance to embrace in many years. Scooting out the chair and casually\nlooking up to see the new inmate for the first time, I could not believe my\neyes. \nThere he was, tattered clothes now\nexchanged for an orange jumpsuit, but exactly the same nonetheless. I'm sure my\nmouth was open, a clear sign of my shock at seeing him. He simply raised his\nhead and looked at me knowingly. Like a blank canvas with the hopes and dreams\nof some famous painter, his face was knowing and hopeless as ever. I picked up\nthe phone and motioned for him to do the same. He seemed reluctant to grab it,\nbut perhaps curiosity eventually got the better of him so he did. \n\"What happened?\" I said almost\naccusingly, as if he should know better than to end up in a place like this.\nHis only response was a few blinks to punctuate the silence. Letting out a\nheavy sigh and slowly realizing that I wasn't about to get anywhere I grew a\nbit frustrated. \"Well listen, you can tell me what happened at least. I went\nlooking for you and you weren't at your spot anymore. I prayed for you every\nday.\" Still nothing. His eyes searched me, darting to and fro like minnows in a\nfish tank, but still ever silent. \"I'll pray for you.\" I said softly, hoping to\nconvey the message that I cared and could be trusted. \nI went back to the prison every day\nfor several weeks, meeting with him over and over, repeating the same silence\nevery visit. Regardless, each visit ended with a prayer. My only hope was that perhaps\nhe would find his miracle. \"God will save him.\" I assured myself.  \nThree weeks passed and suddenly he\nwas no longer on my list. The guards couldn't tell me where he went because of\nbackwards privacy laws but I could search his prisoner number online. He wasn't\nthere anymore. With that realization, I returned to his spot on the street to\nagain find it empty. The street seemed lonelier now even though two other men\nhad taken his place, curled up on the street like question marks. \nThe days passed and I continued to\npray for him until his memory, dulled by the newness of every day, faded from\nmy mind. It wasn't until several months later when I walked into a coffee shop\ndown on fifth street that I remembered him again. The shop was busy, bustling\nwith customers and barista's buzzing back and forth, chomping at the bit to get\ntheir caffeine fix. \nThere he was! Behind the counter,\nwearing that ever familiar Starbucks uniform was the man I saw on the street,\nthe man I saw in prison. He was different now though. He'd shaven his beard\noff. His clothes were clean and pressed. He was smiling too, chatting away with\nthe customer in front of him. I simply couldn't believe it. \"My prayers worked!\"\nI yelled in my own head over and over. My heart pounding, I made my way over to\nhim in, impatiently waiting in the line of customers ahead of me. \nIt came my turn and I couldn't help\nbut ask \"Do you remember me?\" \"What?\" He said looking up at me, his face\ninstantly changing from that happy smile to the same solemn look I had come to\nremember him by. Knowing that I had just elicited an emotion in him that I\nwould not be keen to repeat I put my head down. He slid a coffee underneath my\ndownward gaze and pointed to a table in the corner of the room seemingly\nforgotten by the other customers in the store. \"Ok.\" I said reverently. \nTaking my seat in the corner of the\nshop, I just sat there and watched him work. He had a way with people.\nObviously something he had picked up from panhandling for survival. He moved\ngracefully back and forth from customer to coffee, customer to coffee. He\ntapped his coworkers shoulder and pointed to me. With a shake of her head he\ntook off his apron and made his way over. I couldn't help but get excited to\nfinally talk to him. \nHe sat down in front of me and took\na deep breath. Obviously he was at the end of a long shift and sitting down was\nquite the relief. \"Listen\" I said pleadingly. \"I want you to know that I prayed\nfor you every day you were out in the street and every day you were in prison. And\nlook! It seems God has answered my prayers! \nWith that same gesture he had in\nthe prison, he softly raised his head to look at me. Staring at me for a few\nmoments, he finally spoke. \"No. No he did not.\" Scrunching my face in surprise \"What\ndo you mean? Here you are off the street and out of prison. God most surely\nanswered my prayers.\" \nLetting out another deep breathe he\nspoke yet again. \"You think mumbling under your breath was the best way to help\nme? You think that going home to your warm bed and saying a few words was any\nconsolation to me while I almost froze to death on the street? Do you even know\nwhy I went to jail? Every night after you came to visit me I would go down to\nthird street and sell meth so that I could eat for the day, so that I could\nmake sure I had socks warm enough to stop me from getting hypothermia. Eventually,\nI sold to an undercover cop and easy as that...prison. Not once did you drop so\nmuch as a quarter into my cup. Not once did you offer me a meal. Not once did\nyou notice that I wasn't even wearing a coat, that I didn't have a blanket.\"\nHe looked back to the counter,\nrealizing he had already taken too much time. \"No. You're prayers did not save\nme. When I got out of jail I went to a rehab and got myself clean. After rehab\nI had no place to go so I went back to the street for a few days before getting\ninto a work program. I cleaned my clothes at the Laundromat every day before\nwork because they would get dirty from sleeping on the ground. Every. Day. \nHe stood up. I wanted to say something\nbut in my shame, words escaped me. I looked to him frantically trying to find\nthe words to defend myself and yet nothing came out. He spoke again, this time\nin that tone that says 'response not warranted'. Putting his apron back on he\nsaid \"You won't take this from me. I did this. Me. I did. You want to help\nsomebody? Stop talking to yourself and go out there and do something.\" \nAnd that was it. He walked back to the counter\nand the smile returned to his face. The next day I went out to his spot and\nspoke with the two gentlemen now taking up residence in his old home. Kneeling\ndown to them silently, I extended an arm out to each, cups of soup in hand. \"Everything\nis going to be ok.\" I said knowingly. "}