The Power of Prayer

For those of us who practice religion, we know that despite our best efforts, we sometimes can't help but be bored by the banalities of our faith.  Or, better put, by our inability to properly focus our attention on the intricacies of our faith.  Call it what you will, sometimes you just stare holes into your wristwatch or slip into unconsciousness, your head teetering and tottering on your elastic neck while someone at the front of the room tries to save your soul from damnation.   I learned from my father years ago it's better to lean forward, bow your head, and give the illusion of serious, meditative contemplation.

I was thus engaged this morning during Sacrament meeting (in my defense, Celeste is out of town, and she is normally my first defense), when I heard a voice.  No, it was not the voice of God or angels, but it was nonetheless arresting.  It was the voice of the purest form of Southern Redneck; a true backwoods accent that would have put the entire cast of The Andy Griffith Show to shame.   My attention piqued, I looked up to see a fitting man for the voice.  At the pulpit stood a gruffly shaved gentleman I'll call Brother Ray.  Brother Ray is a heck of a guy.  A little rough around the edges, but he's good people, no question.  He just recently started coming back to church after years of inactivity.  He's possesses a unique talent for fixing things with his hands and a heart of gold that urges him to do more than he is asked for less than he deserves.  On this occasion, Brother Ray was wearing a light blue short-sleeved shirt with a forest green tie to go along with his closely-cropped red hair.  In his beautiful Dixiean accent, he explained to us that he had been asked to speak about the power of prayer.

"Well, I hope y'all don't mahnd, but I'm gonna' do somethin' a bit different t' start out."  He then bowed his head and started praying, and we, not knowing what else to do, followed his lead.

"Thank yeh," he said after he finished.  "I'm a bit nervous.  I haven't givnnuh talk in church since I got outta' prison."  He talked about how prayer had been there for him while he was locked up, and that through that experience, he learned that prayer can take many forms.

"You don't have t' be on yer knees t' be prayin'," he said.  "You don't have t' be crying tears big as horse turds er nothin'.  God don't care if yer at home er in yer truck er whatever, he just cares that yer doin' it."  

He then proceeded to tell us about how prayer had saved him from another round of incarceration after he was slighted by another man on an air-conditioning job.  He got in his truck and sped off to the man's home.

"I jumped inna mah truck and flew down the road hot as hell.  I was s' dern mad I thought 'When I get this sucker I'm gonna' break his neck.'  Then I decided to pray before I knocked on his door and got a feelin' to go eat somethin' first.  So I got me a burger anna Coke, and by the time I got back, I didn't have no more hate in me.  I was calm from the Holy Spirit, and I worked out a deal with the man jus' like that."

He topped off a wonderful talk, peppered with the occasional non-sequitur, by thanking his wife for sticking with him, and expressing his love for his two boys.  "The younger one there, I think he might a been born with twelve night-crawlers up his butt cause that boy can't sit still, but I love 'em."

I didn't sleep a wink.