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Sweet hour of prayer
Sweet hour of prayer
That calls me from a world of care,
And bids me at my Father’s throne
Make all my wants and wishes known.*
If only we could see what happens in the unseen world each time we pray, how eager we would be to pray more. Yet, in His perfect wisdom, God shields those heavenly realities from our eyes, at least most of the time. Once in a while, He gives a precious glimpse behind the veil, like when Elisha’s servant saw the hills filled with the armies of heaven.
Prayer is not just a quiet ritual; it’s our first and finest weapon against the enemy. Every sincere whisper, every tearful plea, is heard by our loving Father in heaven.
This is the heart behind this week’s story, “A Mother’s Prayer.”
May it remind us that no prayer offered in faith ever goes unnoticed.
- Lyrics: William W. Walford (1845)
A Mother’s Prayer
By J.K. Stenger
A single tear slipped from the old woman’s face and landed before her on her Bible. She did not notice it. Her frail elbows rested on the wobbly kitchen table, yet her spirit soared into the quiet, ethereal realms of heaven. There she longed to be, in fellowship with her Lord and Master.
She came to this sacred place every day, but today her heart carried a heavier burden. Again, her only son was the subject of her pleadings and she longed for the quiet assurance that all would be well with him. She had raised him with care, surrounding him with love and gentleness. Yet when he came of age, he rushed eagerly into the arms of the world, denying the Lord, rather seeking the fellowship of mockers and unbelievers.
A new and bitter report of her son’s debauchery had reached her ears. It pierced her heart, like a two-edged blade driven deep into her soul.
And yet, she knew: with the Great Shepherd at her side, all would be well in the end.
Somehow.
Her faith did not waver, even though she shed many tears.
And the Shepherd? He listened. His ears were open to her pleas. With infinite care, He gathered each tear and placed it tenderly into a crystal bottle, kept close beside His throne.
That day, the time had come to answer her incessant prayers. He summoned two of His trusted angels and with a gentle nod sent them on their way. Their mission needed no words; they bowed in silent understanding and prepared to depart.
***
“What are we doing here?” the younger one asked. “Are you certain this is the right place?”
The elder gave a slow nod. His face was grim, yet resolute and his shining eyes swept across the darkened surroundings with careful scrutiny.
“This is the place. We just need to wait and see.”
“Of course,” the younger one replied, though his shoulders sagged. He did not fully understand.
“Hold fast to your most precious faith,” the elder said. He knew why his companion questioned their mission. Inexperienced as he was, the young one still struggled with doubt when things seemed uncertain. It was precisely why he had been brought along.
There was a purpose for their presence here and until the call came to turn back, they would stay their course. Yet even the elder agreed: the place was loathsome. It was dark here and dreary; tainted by the enemy. It reeked of liquor, sweat and the acrid stench of cigarettes. An oppressive blanket of sin clung to every corner. In the shadows, three demons stood watch; silent, menacing and in control, their eyes fixed on all who entered and on what was going on.
But the elder and the younger did not enter through the door.
Instead, they passed unseen through the wall, positioning themselves behind the heavy brown curtains where they blended seamlessly with the shadows. From this hidden vantage point, they watched the chaos, the drunken shouts, the clatter of bottles and the restless movements of the demons.
Darkness as deep as a starless night blanketed the room.
Total darkness? Not quite. A faint, flickering light trembled in the far corner, barely pushing back the shadows. That tiny light came from a young man with curly hair, who did his best to blend in. He joined the drunkard’s song, glass raised high, his laughter a little too forced, as though trying to persuade himself he truly belonged.
Yet, his face betrayed him. True happiness did not live in his heart.
“That’s him,” the elder whispered, a note of excitement in his voice. “He’s the son, and the reason we are here.”
“Him?” the younger one asked skeptically. “He’s just like the rest of them.”
“The light,” the elder said softly. “These are the embers of his faith, still flickering. We must breathe upon them, so the fire of faith will blaze once more.”
The younger one hesitated. “So… we fight? Are we strong enough?”
The elder turned to him, his eyes steady. “More than strong enough. Can darkness withstand the light? The prayers of his mother have empowered us beyond measure. I understand this will be your first battle, so you just follow me. Come on, draw your sword.”
They stepped away from the curtain in a blaze of light. In a heartbeat, the entire dark den of wickedness was illuminated, if only for a moment. The eyes of the three demons bulged with terror. They screamed in fear and cursed with hellish voices, yet their feet seemed nailed to the ground. They were powerless against the force of light.
The elder, sword drawn, surged toward the son and cried, “Oh Lord of heaven and earth, open his eyes that he may see!”
The son, while still raising his glass in the air, stared in shock at the scene before him. He saw something beside the wretched pub, and the elder knew what he saw. He saw the truth.
Memories of his mother’s care pierced the son’s heart, the pains she took to teach him, the sacrifices she made, the values of Love, Gentleness, Goodness, Meekness, Faith she’d instilled.
The son had traded that light for the darkness. For what? Pleasure? Friendship? Lust?
It was detestable.
For a brief moment the son stood motionless, as if he were a statue. Then he let out a croak, cast his glass to the ground, bolted for the door and ran out into the night.
The elder sheathed his sword with a calm, deliberate motion. He turned to the younger and said, “Come. Our work is done for now.”
The younger one’s eyes shone and a determined grin spread across his face as he tightened his fist. “I love the fight.”
***
The old woman closed her Bible and sat quietly at the kitchen table. She wiped her tear-stained face, yet her heart glowed with joy and assurance. Many nights she had sat like this; praying, pleading, listening and basking in the presence of the One who does all things well.
Her son was in the care of the Shepherd of the ages, and He would answer her prayer. If not today, then tomorrow, or even years from now. It mattered not; it would be done. Her prayers would be answered. The Shepherd would not fail her. Oh, what a joy to know that He loved, that He cared, and that nothing could dim His truth.
A knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts.
Who could it be this late? Surely, one of her neighbors in need.
She rose as quickly as her old legs would carry her and hurried to the door.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, in a trembling voice, came the voice she knew and loved so well:
“Mother, it’s me. Open the door. I was lost, but no more. I have sinned against you and against heaven. Forgive me … I want to return to the truth.”
The door swung open.
The mother cried out in delight, and the son broke into sobs. They fell into each other’s arms and wept together. There was joy.
Far above in the heavens, there was joy too. The elder and younger rejoiced, and so did the Master. His smile was the widest of all as it encompassed the far corners of the universe.
____