He approached at the close of the conference, after the crowds had dispersed and headed home.
Only a handful of us remained in the auditorium, tearing down booths and tables and book displays.
Moments before, he’d heard me share a sliver of my complicated story. Cancer three times over. An inability to eat and speak normally. The months of treatment that took me to the brink of death. The years of physical trauma that assaulted body and mind with a suffering I didn’t know any human could endure.
“I know you don’t really know me, but…” He seemed both unsure and determined. “Do you mind if I pray for you?”
It wasn’t a hollow offering, not a passing “I’ll pray for you” muttered in the awkwardness of not knowing what to say.
His question—his offer—was sincere. He wanted to pray for me. He needed to. And so I smiled and received the gift.
But as he poured out his heart, as He pleaded with God to bring complete healing to my frail and broken body, as he begged the Almighty to restore the months and years I’d lost, I felt the tiniest stirring of rebellion deep within.
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