When You Pray . . . And Nothing Happens

Today as I write I am looking out over the quiet blue waters of the Pacific Ocean. I can see the earth’s curve at the horizon. I am told that this is a distance of fourteen miles. Beyond the horizon lies an expanse of thousands of miles. The immensity of the water staggers my mind— who can comprehend it? As I watch and think of this, a sailing boat skims by and I notice how tiny it is in comparison to the ocean. Still more impressive is the sight of a little child at the water’s edge. He is playfully splashing about as though he were in the bathtub at home.

Prayer is like the ocean. Its depth is so great that it cannot be measured. Like an ocean, it links the continents of all men. It has tides and storms that exert tremendous power, but the smallest child may lisp a prayer for his sick puppy and know that the universe has been changed by his whispered request.

As I write about prayer I acknowledge the help of those who have led me into the ankle-deep waters of childish prayer. And, those who have encouraged me to move out into the depths of mature prayer. Among these are Recie Adsit, E. E. Byrum, George Buttrick, Josephine Dawson, Catherine Marshall, and Agnes Sanford. Who can say what order I should use to list these? They were there when I needed them. That is enough.