A Husband's Healing Prayer
A Husband's Healing Prayer
Why wasn't there a cure for his wife's delitating illness? Prayer was the only answer.
I watched my wife, Rebecca, open her gift that Christmas of 1992. She dug through the tissue paper and uncovered the small sign lying inside the box. She picked it up and read the words aloud: "Prayer changes things." She looked at me and I nodded. "Let's hope it does," I replied. I was a minister. I was all about prayer. Never, though, had I been tested like this.
That past spring Rebecca had gotten sick. Just the flu, we'd thought. She'd be back to her old self in a week or so. Instead, she just got worse. This was more than just the flu. But the doctors couldn't nail it down. Her symptoms kept changing. Dizziness. Nausea. And headaches. Terrible headaches. Then the headaches disappeared, only to be replaced by muscle and joint pain. Worst of all were the days I'd see her sitting with a vacant stare. Rebecca called it a "brain fog." She forgot simple things and couldn't think clearly. She became chronically exhausted. Eventually she had to quit her job. I knew the doctors were trying, but I couldn't help feeling frustrated. Why couldn't they help her?
Finally one ventured a diagnosis. "I believe you have fibromyalgia," he told her. "And possibly chronic fatigue syndrome along with it." The pain, headaches, cognitive impairment, muscle and joint stiffness were all symptoms of fibromyalgia. "We're not really sure what causes it," he said. As for the chronic fatigue syndrome, that would explain her exhaustion. Neither condition was usually fatal but there was no known cure.
Except prayer, maybe, I thought. That's why Rebecca got the sign for Christmas. When the weather warmed, I planted it in our garden. Every time we left the house, every time we pulled into the driveway, we were greeted with that message of hope. Not that I needed the reminder; I'd been praying like crazy for my wife ever since she first got sick. But sometimes my prayers sounded empty and desperate. I said the same things over and over and got the same results as if I were praying to a void.
And Rebecca got worse. I took a leave of absence from my job. Now I could clean, grocery shop, do laundry. "I wish I could help," she told me, "but I'm just not up to it. I feel like every bit of strength I have is slipping away."
Just like my faith, I thought. I tried to shove that out of my mind. What was a minister without faith? And yet when I would see that sign in the garden, promising me that prayer would work wonders, I felt betrayed. The more I prayed, the worse Rebecca got.
For 13 frustrating years the situation went on. I took a job as an account manager for an insurance company. We needed the income, and it was less demanding than being a pastor. I have to admit that the work was a welcome break. But every night on the drive home, a cloud would come over me. I knew what was waiting. Rebecca would be in bed or lying on the sofa. "Been there all day?" I'd ask. She'd nod. Some days were a little better than others. But on those rare occasions, she would often overextend herself. She'd do a load of laundry or try to vacuum and feel like she'd been run over by a truck. And that's how I felt inside. Run over. Crushed. Frustrated. Powerless. One day I let all my feelings show, for the first time telling Rebecca of the despair that was eating away at me. "I'll get better," she said. "I will! We just need to keep hope alive, to keep faith alive."
The words were like a knife in my heart. I'd been hoping. I'd been praying. So hard. For years now. Only to be met with stony silence in response. "Why?" I asked her. "Hope hurts."