Tag Archives: God

December 13, 2011 · 12:06 am

Lt. Nick Vogt and the Power of Faith

Nick Vogt’s alive. And that’s a miracle.

It’s a dramatic story of heart-stopping injuries and inexplicable survival—and a simultaneous testimony of tenacious faith and the power of prayer. Nick’s horrendous suffering touched the hearts of his hometown community, the far-flung military family, and Catholics everywhere. And the mysterious interplay between setbacks and miraculous interventions has swelled the ranks of spiritual warriors praying on Nick’s behalf, all around the globe.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let me tell you about Nick.

A handsome, athletic young man, Nick turns 24 today (December 13th). He has the lean muscles of a runner and the kind eyes of a big brother—his four younger siblings think he’s “one of the most amazing human beings” ever. One of those rare people liked by everyone, Nick reflects his parents’ strong values of family and faith. Devout Catholics, Nick’s parents–Steve and Sheila–wove faith into the normal fabric of life: a crucifix in every room, nightly prayers together at bedtime, and grace before meals. “God has been a part of our everyday life since day one,” says Olivia, Nick’s 22-year-old sister. And He remains so, now more than ever.

One month ago, the young lieutenant with the strong jaw and easy grin led his platoon on patrol in a still-dangerous corner of Afghanistan. It was a mission cut short. Nick stepped on a pressure-triggered explosive device (IED) hidden in the dirt beneath his feet. The lethal trap—purposely set for American soldiers–exploded under Nick, tore off his legs, and left his life hanging in the balance.

Nick should be dead, the doctors told his family later, if not from the explosion then from the precarious surgeries that followed. He suffered such severe wounds that his heart stopped several times as doctors operated to stanch the massive bleeding.

Medicine rejoices in miracles, but doesn’t expect them.

Believers do.

Jesus promised that, “Your Father knows what you need before you ask him.” (Matt. 6:8). And Scripture says, “For God nothing will be impossible.” (Luke 1:37).

Even as his family sent that first urgent message–begging for prayers for Nick–to friends, parishioners, and neighbors in Bethlehem, Ohio, God surrounded Nick with exactly the people he needed.

A skilled medic, Spc. Thomas Underhill, saved Nick’s life in the intense aftermath of the blast. The military surgeons in Afghanistan, forced to amputate the torn limbs, fought tirelessly to stabilize Nick as he continued losing blood. Soldiers on base, responding to an emergency midnight appeal, sprinted over to give blood for Nick. The urgency of saving one of their own overcame their exhaustion, and the line of war-weary soldiers stretched a city block. (Before leaving the war zone, Nick needed 400 units of blood, 100 more followed later– the highest total of any wartime patient.)

Miraculously, Nick survived.

Parents will tell you that the thought of a son or daughter suffering alone is almost unbearable. The planes fly too slowly, the miles stretch too far, and the war zone delays their bedside vigil. But while Nick lay unconscious in critical care, God was there. According to his sister Olivia, “soldiers who did not even know Nick would sit with him for hours just holding his hand …just so he wasn’t alone. All for my brother who had been there not even 3 months… The amount of love from his and other soldiers there was unbelievable.” Nick needed comfort; bonded by war, his brothers in combat took turns by his side. The faith of his family and the prayers from back home brought angels to keep watch.

As people prayed, God answered again and again, in awesome power and love. In the days just after the explosion, Nick needed repeated surgeries. His sister Olivia said. “Every doctor…said he should not be alive after all he went through.” But God was not ready to call Nick home.

In fact, Olivia says, Nick’s dad jokes that Nick himself must have insisted on more time. As an officer fiercely protective of his men, Nick “was famous for going up the ladder of superiors until he got the answer he wanted.” It’s not hard to imagine that “when his heart stopped in the operating room, Nick must have gone straight to the top and respectfully asked God, ‘With all due respect, Sir, I’m not done down there, so could you please send me back?’”

Nick is back–resilient Nick, powered by a loving heart, a tenacious will, and the vigilant prayers of hundreds, even thousands, of people he’s never met.

Last week, Sheila Vogt posted this glimpse of Nick’s indomitable spirit: “He has a big day in the OR today.  He was chomping at the bit to get in there and just kept looking at the surgeon teams coming in his room and mouthing the words, ‘Let’s do it.’ Even as injured as he is, he still seems to be the Nick we all know and love.” Thumbs up, powering through the pain, determined to do what it takes–that’s Nick.

Never afraid of hard work, Nick excelled in school, sports, and the army, always doing more than was asked.  Why serve? Because it was his dream, his calling. “When he was six years old he wanted his first flat top hair cut,” said Olivia, “He had already decided he wanted to be in the army. From that point on he never second-guessed that.”

As his West Point years drew to a close, Nick mulled over the next step: medical school or deployment.  He opted to postpone medical school—for the sake of his future patients.  He told his mom that he’d go to war first, so that when he treated wounded warriors in the future, he would know first-hand what they had faced.

In God’s plan, there is no “what if?” He knows the “why?” and the “what comes next?” What we know is that God’s promise endures: He “works all things to the good of those who love him and are called according to his purpose.” (Rom. 8:28). God’s got a mighty plan for this selfless young soldier.

Our culture blindly denies the value of life “burdened” by imperfection, disability, or suffering. But that’s not how his family sees it. They see the son and brother they love and for whose life they are profoundly grateful.

The Bible says, “Give thanks in all circumstances.” (1 Thess. 5:18) No easy task for us mortals; it requires divine perspective. In the midst of their grief and worry for Nick, his mom and dad gave thanks to God for the greatest gift—Nick’s life. In a Thanksgiving Day post, Sheila wrote, “Steve and I went to Thanksgiving Mass today in the hospital chapel. Our prayers of thanks this year have…a much more powerful sincereness. God has blessed us with a most ultimate gift – some more time with Nick.”

Nick’s life is truly a gift for others.  When the time is right, I hope Nick discovers…

–The spiritual fervor he’s inspired every day since his injury.  Countless adults, children, and peers hit their knees every day to pray for him.  Even people who haven’t prayed much over the years hear Nick’s story and reach out again to their Father in heaven.  “God, please heal Nick. Guide his doctors, comfort his siblings, and strengthen his parents.  We’re looking for miracles, Lord.” If only our lives drew others towards Christ with the same intensity.

–The gift of joy he gives his parents, doctors, and siblings each time he smiles, signals thumbs up, or delights in a favorite song. It’s a gift multiplied and received by hundreds who check on him daily through Facebook, receive emails from the incredible network of military families, and read the posts on his parish’s website. I wonder, do the rest of us give others such pure joy?

–The seeds of humble trust planted in the hearts of many, as God answers their prayers for Nick. On Dec. 7th, Nick’s dad wrote: “Nick`s recovery has gotten more difficult. …It turns out that a blood clot had formed in his brain … He went into emergency surgery last night and the clot was removed. This latest injury had me praying hard for Nick and to give us strength against falling into despair. Within an hour of my prayer for strength we had a visitor, a friend of Nick`s who happened to be here for other business. [He] had this type of injury a while back and looks great. My prayer was answered again. I now see that this injury can also be overcome. Thanks for your support and please continue your prayers.” Would that we all trusted in God’s strength, not our own.

–His impact on his siblings’ faith. In the midst of her family’s suffering, Nick’s sister Olivia said, “In a situation like this it is easy to blame God and ask why did it have to happen to such a good person? If anything, this has brought us closer to God. We’ve seen miracles lately happening to Nick. When doctors themselves say he should not be alive, there is a reason he is. And our family and friends believe it’s because of prayer…. For any one who has, is, or will go through this, you have to learn to trust in God and in prayer.” In pain? Trust God. Turn to Him.

—The inexpressible significance of his love. Nick awoke ten days after the explosion, the doctors stabilized him, and the military flew him and his parents to the U.S. for the next phase of treatment. Unable to talk, Nick looked at his parents next to him on the plane and mouthed to them the only words that mattered. “I love you guys!” Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things (1 Cor. 13:7). Lord, help us love like that!

To those of you just learning about Nick, Olivia says, “My family first and foremost would ask for prayers from people. They’ve got us so far already but he has a very long way to go.”

Nick faces the constant threat of deadly infection and many months of intensive rehabilitation. His family’s journey will continue on its wild ride–the ordinary and the miraculous—but it’s a journey they won’t make alone.

Moved by the urgency of Nick’s daily struggle, thousands of people will walk and talk with God more deeply today. They will thank God for the gift of life—no matter how broken and vulnerable—and beg mercy, healing, and strength for Nick, his family, and our military.

And you…will you pray too?

Will you share his story with friends, so they will pray too?

It’s a small–but powerfully big–way to say thanks.

Financial support for wounded soldiers can be sent to Fisher House or the Wounded Warrior Project.  Donations to support Nick’s recovery can be sent to: Lieutenant Nicholas Vogt Hope Fund
c/o Sacred Heart of Jesus Church
5742 State Route 61 South,
Shelby, Ohio 44875

© 2011 Mary Rice Hasson

Photos courtesy of Olivia Vogt

Permission granted for republication, in whole or part, with attribution.

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June 24, 2011 · 8:44 am

Are You a Good Dad? (Or Mom?)

Father’s Day made me think: what do I know about being a good dad?  After all, I’m a mom.

Motherhood gives me a certain perspective on what good dads do.  But only a dad can offer the inside-out perspective on being a good dad.

So I tapped into wiser heads than mine and asked some really good dads, “Knowing what you know now, what advice would you give a younger dad on what it takes to be a good dad?”

Charlie, a father of three teens (two boys and a girl), says this:

“First, learn patience—with the kids and their mother. Second, it’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

He paused.

“And third, realize that you are not guaranteed happiness in being a father.  It requires self-sacrifice—in terms of sleep, money, etc.—but only through that self-sacrifice can you be happy.

“I always tell people that the greatest moments of fatherhood are not at Disneyland or at some sporting event.  I remember one time the whole house was sick for a couple of days. The place was a ‘vomitorium.’ I’m doing all the nursing and janitor functions while feeling like crap. I’m nauseous and exhausted, rinsing out a vomit bucket in the bathroom, and it hits me—THIS is what it means to be a father.

“It felt good.”

The heart of a Dad–progressively emptied of selfishness, bucket by bucket, becomes a heart overflowing with love.

But it doesn’t happen by itself.  Would any of us empty ourselves so willingly, day after day, if we didn’t have to?

A friend of mine lives a wealthy, power-couple lifestyle. Long-married, but with no children, she once told me, “It’s hard for us, with no children, to learn how to be unselfish towards each other.  Everything’s negotiable. His turn, my turn. It’s not the same as being unselfish. I watch you with your children and I’m envious. They teach you to give out of love—to give simply because they need it, even when there’s no benefit to you at all.”

Her wistful words remain fresh in my memory, even after several years.  I think of them when I struggle to give freely–when meeting a child’s need creates a momentary sense of “loss”—lost privacy, free time, sleep, or opportunity. In my better moments, I remember that it’s not “loss” at all, but a gift, to have the chance to love more deeply, less selfishly.

Charlie experienced the blessing of necessity.  I say “blessing” because ‘necessity’ has the power to change hearts, if we are willing. God, fortunately for us, doesn’t unfurl the scroll of our selfish habits all at once, demanding that we march through the list and methodically rid ourselves of self-centeredness before the sunset of life.

He leads us by the grace of necessity. Our response ‘in the moment’ turns loss into gain and selfishness into love.

All He asks is a heart willing to love.

And humble enough to do the job in front of us.

That’s what it takes to be a good Dad.

And, come to think of it, that’s what it takes to be a good Mom too.

© 2011 Mary Rice Hasson

 

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May 11, 2011 · 12:10 pm

Sudden Death. Life Perfectly Timed.

Mary Hamann

Sudden death.

The loss of a beloved friend, without warning, rips a gaping hole in the memory-rich fabric of life.

Mary Murphy Hamann, my college roommate, longtime friend, and one of the most cheerful people I’ve ever met, died on Good Friday in a remote village in Paraguay.

Her plan? To attend her daughter’s wedding there and meet the Paraguayan in-laws. But God planned otherwise.  Mary hemorrhaged unexpectedly from a hidden, life-threatening tumor, just one day before her daughter’s wedding.

Nothing could have saved her. Even if she’d been stateside, the end result would have been the same.  Her close-knit family–husband, four adult children, seven surviving siblings, in-laws, and dozens of nieces and nephews–reeled from the blow, in shock and grief.

But the days that followed found them steadied by the mercy of God’s grace and the hope born of faith.

It was her time.

I remember once, thirty years earlier, when Mary told me, “It’s time.”

Only then it was “time” to marry her high school sweetheart, Mike—a decision that seemed as ill-timed (to others) as her death now thirty years later.

Just 19 when Mike slipped the engagement ring on her finger, Mary married at 20. No shotguns involved, just a young couple in love and ready to team up for life. “He’s the one,” Mary told me, “It’s time.”

So she married and left school, taking a job that would support them both while Mike spent his last two years at Notre Dame.

The young feminists in our dorm sizzled with outrage. Clearly appalled, one driven engineer-to-be expressed her indignation—on Mary’s behalf–to me. “She’s got a 3.9! Why is she leaving school?  Why doesn’t he leave school so she can finish?”

Mary’s decision made no sense to the career-oriented, high-achievers of the 80’s. Forget the balancing act. Marriage and motherhood were obstacles to career success.

Some imagined a he-versus-she wrestling match over dominance and ambition, with Mary finally yielding.  Others carped that Mary’s conservative beliefs and traditional Catholicism must be at fault. “What a waste.” They lamented their friend’s all-but-certain future: talents undeveloped and opportunities lost, all sacrificed at the altar of marriage and motherhood.

Poor Mary.

“Poor Mary” never looked back.  Her sureness emerged from a prayerful heart intent on one question: ”What is the Lord’s will for me?”

The answer didn’t come instantly. She prayed for months, her rosary often slipping from her sleeping hand, down from her top bunk onto mine below. The Lourdes Grotto at Notre Dame held dozens of candle stubs lit by a young woman in search of God’s will. And her commitment to daily Mass—at noon or 5 pm—often meant the ultimate sacrifice for a college student: settling for the dregs of cafeteria food. Limp lettuce and rubbery burgers, at best. (One long-winded homily and she’d miss the meal entirely!)

God must have been tickled to see a young heart madly in love, but so willing to ask what He wanted. And Mary delighted in His answer—yes, marry Mike.

It was time.

More importantly, her question, “What’s your will for me, Lord?” wasn’t a one-timer.  It was the recurring theme of her life. (Mike’s life too, for that matter.)

And indeed, it’s interesting how life turned out.

Mary’s first job gave way to full-time motherhood, with one girl and three boys in quick succession. Unfazed by muddy feet and shoes gone AWOL, Mary’s contagious laughter bubbled over in daily life. As her peers got big jobs and even bigger signing bonuses, Mary changed diapers, hugged toddlers, and shrugged off thoughts of what-might-have-been.

Then, supplementing Mike’s teaching job, she resumed part-time work, often from home, with stints in copywriting, advertising, and political campaigns. In short order, resourcefulness paired with economic necessity and gave birth to a successful family business in marketing and communications.

Funny how God works.  As Mary followed the thread of God’s will, woven among family needs and life’s opportunities, her creative talents flourished, her professional skills sharpened, and her entrepreneurial spirit grew. She picked up the classes she needed, then came full circle, landing back at Notre Dame in a job she loved—Director of Communications in the Mendoza College of Business. For ten years, as her children moved into adulthood, she edited an award-winning magazine and played a central role in her husband’s successful entre into politics.

Even by feminist standards, it was a quality resume for a mom of four.

But her accomplishments aren’t the real story.

When Mary died, God didn’t read her obituary.  He read her heart.

That’s the story too easily missed. Her heart had grown more in love with Him over the years, not by adding up achievements but by asking that question, “What’s your will for me, Lord?”

It’s a question that I, for one, ought to ask more often.

Because that simple question—“What’s your will for me, Lord?”—purifies the heart. And our sincere (though surely imperfect) response to that question, over and over, defines a life well lived.

In hindsight, Mary’s life was not only well lived, but perfectly timed.

And so was her death. It was her time, because it was God’s time.  It’s the only way Mary would have wanted it.

© 2011  Mary Rice Hasson

 

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March 9, 2011 · 5:27 am

Should You Feed Grandpa? Depends on Your Worldview.

Grandpa's Food

My friend, Marci, drives a basketball carpool every week, carting her teen-age son and his teammates to practices and games. So she hears a lot, from the boys, about their daily lives.

One conversation a few weeks ago sent chills up her spine.

“How’s your Grandpa doing?”  Marci asked Trey, an occasional rider.

Trey’s Grandpa had been in the hospital, a few states away, for two months after suffering a systemic infection that left him weak and unable to breathe on his own.  Trey’s aunts and uncles had been taking turns visiting, flying down to spend time with him and watch over his care.

“Well, not so good,” said Trey.

And then, in a matter-of-fact tone, he added, “But they stopped feeding him last week. The doctor said now he’ll die naturally, on his own, sometime this week.”

Marci’s jaw dropped.  She didn’t know what to say. Trey’s parents were nice people, not attached to any particular faith, but trying to raise good kids.  And yet here was Trey nonchalantly describing his extended family’s decision to starve his Grandpa as a “natural” death.

When the other boys left the car, Marci’s own son turned to her, aghast, and said, “What’s up with that? Stop feeding him so he’ll die?!”

What’s up with that?  It’s “worldview” in action.

What’s a “worldview”?

Our worldview is the lens through which we see the world—it’s anchored to the truths we believe and reflected in the shape of our decisions.

It’s the window through which we interpret our world, find meaning, and make decisions about right and wrong.

Decisions like whether or not we should continue feeding Grandpa.

Secular or Christian Worldview?

The sharp divide between these two worldviews begins at the beginning…with their premises.

While the Christian worldview centers on God (and acknowledges that God is in charge and we are not), the secular worldview exalts “me and my happiness.”

That’s an easy sell. Daily messages from the media, entertainment, counselors, doctors–even nominally religious folks–reinforce the secular worldview that it’s “all about me.”

And ideas that once seemed unthinkable blend into the cultural “white noise”— hardly noticed, rarely challenged, but imprinted in mind and memory.

Ideas like…

“We can’t really know what’s true. You have your truth, I have mine.”

“What’s wrong for me might be right for you.”

“What really matters is that you’re happy.”

“You’re entitled to get what you want. Now.”

“You’ve got to think about yourself first.”

“’Quality of life’ matters more than life itself.”

“Some lives aren’t worth living.”

 

Unless consciously overridden, these ideas trigger a secular worldview by default—even among those who wear the Christian label.

The result? Flawed moral reasoning.

The results can be deadly, as Grandpa discovered.

Christian morality begins with the question, “What does God say about this?”

The secular culture first asks, “How do you feel about that?”

Trying to decide whether Grandpa gets fed by asking, “How do I feel about that?” is like trying to drop a moral plumb line onto a deck that’s pitching and tossing on waves of emotion.

It won’t work.

As Christians, our moral reasoning begins with the truth revealed by God. And our moral plumb line drops straight from one level (“What does God say?”) to the next (“What does the Church teach?”), defining the scope of our solutions.

“Solutions” incompatible with God’s teachings get dumped out of the “solutions” bucket from the start, before we ever ask ourselves, “How do I feel about that?”

Ironically, Catholics who reject the moral teachings of the Church miss one of God’s great mercies—it’s precisely those teachings that offer clarity, direction, and peace about how God wants us to act.

So, starving Grandpa is not an option. Pope John Paul II put it this way: “Water and food, even when provided by artificial means, always represents a natural means of preserving life, not a medical act.”

Everyone has a worldview—from the doctors who proposed a “Do Not Feed” solution, to the utilitarian ethicists on hospital staffs, to the clerk in the hospital gift store.

Trey’s family has a worldview.

And so do you.

The question is, which one?

Someone’s life may depend on getting it right.

 

© 2011 Mary Rice Hasson

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September 9, 2010 · 3:47 pm

Moms: Trying to Be Perfect?

I called home for Mom and Dad’s 54th wedding anniversary.  Mom answered, a bit breathless, and started off with an apology. “Sorry, I’m out of breath.  I was just vacuuming.  You should see the dog hairs…they’re shedding all over the place.”

Nothing remarkable about that, except that Mom’s scheduled to have major surgery tomorrow, risky surgery. But with two collies shedding their beautiful fur all over the place now, vacuuming wins out over worrying–and resting.  Mom’s got an engine that rarely sputters and never quits.  She needed that strength to raise ten of us.

We talked a bit, joked back and forth and then somehow the conversation turned around to her.  I just had to tell her, once more. “Thanks, Mom. You’re a great mom.”

She got serious for a moment, paused, and then stated simply, “You take what you’ve been given and you do the best you can with it. I’m not rich like Paris Hilton and I’m not a saint like Mother Teresa…But you do the best you can with what you’ve got.”

One thing’s for sure: Mom’s philosophy of “do the best you can with what you’ve got” had practical application when we were growing up. Unexpected company coming and not much meat to go around?  She’d add more sauce or potatoes, and say “FHB,” or “family hold back.” You do the best you can. Wearing K-mart sneakers in my first high school state track meet? Just run faster. “You do the best you can with what you’ve got.” (K-mart showed well. I doubt Nike could have done any better.)  Overwhelmed by a math test, history quiz, and a paper due, all on the same day? “Do the best you can.” (To which she was likely to add, however, “Just get the damn things done.”)

But it wasn’t until I became a mom myself, that I understood the meaning behind her words more deeply.  “Doing the best we can with what we’ve got” means taking stock of “what we’ve got,” both humanly and spiritually–and realizing that perfection is impossible.

Our limitations don’t hide for long.  We see them when we’re bone-weary from the day’s work, but more work awaits; when we’re bewildered, sensing that something’s wrong with a child, a relationship, or a situation, but we don’t know what; when we face decisions that need experience, expertise, or time that we don’t have; and when we see others’ emotional needs go unmet, because we are running on empty. These are the times when our human weakness overwhelms us.

But these are the times that lead us to make room for God.

For most of us, our hearts are crowded places, where big ambitions, selfishness, and concern over others’ opinions all jostle for space, leaving little room for God.  And we’re often unwilling to clean house, spiritually, until our failures, weaknesses, and imperfections drive us to do a clean sweep. And then we’re ready to invite God in— which leads me to the rest of my conversation with Mom.

Her prescription for motherhood, “You do the best you can with what you’ve got,” is just the beginning.  With the confidence born of experience, prayer, and many struggles, she declares the next steps, “Then you let God do the rest.” (I could imagine her shrugging) “And, you don’t worry about it.”

Motherhood, as my Mom has shown me, means letting God fill the gap between what my family needs in a given situation and what I have to give. It means living in the truth about who I am (limitations aplenty) and who God is (power and perfection).

And it means developing that confident faith and expectant hope that God will indeed “work all things to the good of those who love him.” (Rom. 8:28)

There’s no need to be the perfect mom.  All I need to be is a mom who depends on the love of a perfect God.

(c) 2010 Mary Rice Hasson

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March 9, 2010 · 7:29 pm

“Mom, I almost got killed last night.”

“Mom, I almost got killed last night.”

No mom wants to hear those words—although a call from someone else, without the “almost,” certainly would have been worse. This is a story of a miracle—of prayers answered before the need was known.

I’d been praying extra hard all week for our son Jim, for no particular reason. He had midterms but otherwise life was good. No worries, as he often says.  But God’s nudges can’t be ignored. The entire week, He’d been prompting me to pray more often and more earnestly for my children, and Jim in particular.  Now I know why.

Jim drove to O’Hare Airport and dropped his lovely girlfriend off for her flight home to Atlanta for spring break.  Turning back towards Notre Dame, driving his girlfriend’s car, he hoped traffic would keep moving so he’d get some sleep before the next day’s 5 a.m. ROTC training and his own last day of class.  Dark now, traffic on I-90 was heavy for a weeknight but thankfully zipped along at 70 mph. A half-hour into the drive, passing Chicago on his left, Jim’s long legs began to rebel.  He’s a big guy, 6’1” and athletic, and foot space was cramped in the girlfriend-sized car.

He stretched his right leg—perhaps too fast—and his knee knocked the keys right out of the ignition—at 70 mph.  In an instant, he was no longer driving, but trapped in an uncontrolled, 2-ton, rolling hazard with no brakes and no steering. Car after car barreled up behind him on the dark highway, only to swerve or slam on the brakes at the last minute as they realized he was decelerating and out of control. He was a slowing target, a rear-end collision waiting to happen. Flashers on, he tried to restart the car, but the ignition was locked. He would have to coast until he lost enough speed to use the hand brake, put the car in park, and restart. 70, 60, 50, 40, 30.  The speedometer crawled slowly downward and the headlights behind him came up faster and faster, swerving with inches to spare. In the darkness and heavy traffic, cars behind him had almost no time to react. Praying, Jim knew it was only a matter of time before he’d be hit.

But then the van showed up.

Jim didn’t see who was driving, but I suspect it was his guardian angel.  A dark van came up behind him but, instead of swerving aside, it braked, threw on its own flashers, and stayed behind Jim, decelerating with him. At risk of being rear-ended first, the van driver created a buffer zone behind Jim.  Together they slowed–30, 25, 20 mph–while cars whipped past them still going 60, 70 miles an hour. The van stayed behind him, giving him space and safety.  At 15 mph, Jim wrenched the car’s gears into park (yes, the transmission survived) and was able to restart the car. Shaky, and with a profound sense of God’s intervention, Jim accelerated towards home.  The van disappeared in the traffic. More than a minute of terror, but with a miraculous finish.

About the same time, across hundreds of miles, another miracle was taking place, and another mom likely heard similar words: ‘Mom, I almost got killed today.’ A young Marine, out on patrol in Afghanistan, stepped on an IED. Usually, that means death, disfiguring burns, or missing limbs. The explosion sent him flying across a field, but inexplicably he landed in one piece, suffering only a concussion. His grandma, whose email I received through a military-moms prayer chain, witnessed to the power of prayer: “[P]raise be to God, he walked away with only a concussion.  Keep up those prayers!“

Two miracles in one week—how can I miss God’s message? Our prayers matter. And it’s irrelevant whether I know why I need to pray for someone—I just need to do it. Those stray thoughts, memories out of the blue, or nagging feelings might be God prompting us to pray for someone whose private crisis or need is unknown to us. Only God knows the best result in a given situation—but we know He hears us. And fulfilling our promises to pray for others, whether we make that commitment through a prayer chain, in conversation, or at Mass, binds us mysteriously to those who receive our prayers. That’s how it’s supposed to work.

Our prayers do make a difference.  And I am so grateful.

© 2010 Mary Rice Hasson

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