A friend "from the OLD days" back in South West Los Angeles at South Broadway Church of Christ, Norm Hancock, forwarded this piece to me with this note:
"This is from my friend and college quartet member, Larry Bennett. Jeremy is still a paraplegic but is improving. He is improving to the point of him being able to sing "Amazing Grace" at his grandfathers funeral. As you can imagine, there was not a dry eye in the church." —Norm
It's a good reminder that wordiness and human eloquence aren't what "cut it" when we talk with the Father.
Chuck
The Most Wonderful Prayer
by Larry Bennett
Late one night while seated at the computer, I heard the plea of my son: "Hello! Is anybody there?"
I paused and listened, wondering if he would persist. Jeremy, our 36-year old, brain-injured, paraplegic son, frequently calls out to us in the night. When he called out again, I went up the steps and opened the door to his dimly lit room.
"Is that you, Dad?"
"Yes, Jer, it's late and you should be asleep." "Can I sing a song?"
"No, Jer, it's the middle of the night." Long pause. "Could I sing just one song?" "Okay, go ahead," I relented.
"What should I sing?"
"How about `Amazing Grace'?" I suggested this because it is his favorite hymn.
He began the words, "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound ..."
As he sang all four verses quietly in the dark, I remembered what Jesus said about those who are disadvantaged: "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me." (MT. 25:40b)
Jesus referred to those who have not, those who are hungry or thirsty, those who are strangers or in need of clothes, those who are sick or imprisoned, those who have less than others.
Jeremy's broken spine and injured brain qualify him as one of the least of these my brethren.
After his accident, August 17, 1996, he did not speak for 8 months. One evening after coming home from the hospital, Jeremy's brother, Kip, asked him, "Jeremy, do you know where you are?"
Jeremy answered, "I don't think so," and the world stood still. He hasn't stopped talking since.
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He cannot care for himself. If not given food, he would die of hunger. If not given water, he would die of thirst. Because of his short-term memory loss, he can't remember what happened 30 seconds ago. He does not recognize me when I walk into the room until I speak. He cannot walk. He cannot cry.
There are few weaker vessels than Jeremy whom God could use. He is imprisoned within the confines of his own mind. He does not know what day of the year it is, so he asks constantly. He cannot tell time, he cannot read. He lies in bed at night and has no idea where he is. He can't demand anything; he must always humbly ask for anything he wants and then hope someone will bring it to him. When he pleads, "Helloooooo," someone may answer. Someone may not. Usually someone does.
There upon his bed, my beautiful son lies before me singing. I think to myself-he is defenseless, harmless, innocent, and trusting. But he is God's child too. God hears him sing and pray everyday!
After he sang the last word, he paused and peered into the semi-darkness. I had decided to remain silent, thinking that perhaps he would go to sleep.
"Are you there, Dad?" Jeremy cannot see clearly.
I did not answer, wondering if he could see me or even remember that I was in the room. He listened for a response. He had forgotten.
What Jeremy did next surprised me but shouldn't have.
"I guess I'll talk to you, God." Jeremy talks to God a lot.
Those were the last words I understood. His voice became hushed as he spoke. The inflections were just like I had heard a hundred times before. I remained silent, trying to pick up on one word. His words were too soft.
For the next four and one half minutes, I listened while his childlike mind reached quietly for God. Tears flooded my eyes as I realized what was happening. I was listening to a prayer and not understanding one word. It overwhelmed me that Jer obviously knew that no one was listening to him except God. His inaudible words were filled with sincerity, but I was not privileged to their content. God listened and under-stood. I listened and did not.
There was an indefinable majesty in the moment: I felt as if I were granted a rare opportunity, a chance to hear what God alone hears.
What astounding faith Jeremy has! There in the dark, he ponders and promptly forgets his pondering as he struggles within the canyons of his fragmented mind. Without question, he believes in God. He talks to Him. He has no one else to turn to in his restricted condition. He appeals to man, and if man doesn't answer, he appeals to God.
Jeremy can't get out of bed, but he can talk to God. He does not know where he is, but he can talk to God. He doesn't remember that I am in the room, but he can talk to God.
One thing of which I am sure: he prayed for his memory to heal. He always does. God must
be intrigued with this unusual prayer flowing from the sweet recesses of his limited mind.
After Jer's prayer, he lay still and listened to the sounds of the night: the steady hum of his motorized bed and the ticking of the clock on the wall. A minute passed. He yawned almost silently. He closed his eyes. He opened his eyes. He seemed to fight to stay awake, but still, night prevailed and Jeremy went to sleep.
For fifteen or twenty minutes I watched his beautiful face in the shadowy room. I thought over very carefully what I had just witnessed. As 1 tried to sneak by his bed, his eyes flew open and he looked at me and said, "Is that you Dad?"
"Yes, Jer."
I leaned over his bed and gazed into those big searching eyes, stroked his head and explained to him what had just happened. He had forgotten, but listened with wonder as I described to him how he prayed and how I didn't understand one word. I told him it was the most wonderful prayer I ever heard.
