I never met my grandfather, a Methodist minister, but my dad gave me his diaries from the 1920s, saying that I’m probably the only one in the family who might be interested.
Inside were notes about visits, meetings, sermon topics. There were poems and news clippings, as well. I read about pastoral visits to Mrs. Selleck, a member of his church in San Bernardino, California. Poignantly written newspaper stories described how Mrs. Selleck tragically died in childbirth, leaving several children behind. I read about the children’s destitute, alcoholic father “seeking homes for the children.” Another news clipping announced that my grandparents had adopted one of those children, a 2-year-old, my dad. A drunkard’s son became a pastor’s son, and the course of many lives changed.
My father grew up as a pastor’s kid. He didn’t like much about it, especially the fact that denominational policies of the time forced the family to move every three years. But my dad held onto his faith, even as a young man in the Merchant Marines in times of war. Returning to the states through the port of San Francisco, the first place he went was not to enjoy a meal at Fisherman’s Wharf, or to other comforts in the city. He went to church to find peace.
But the pastor prayed fervently for the death of the enemy, and my father grew angry. He had seen enough death. He didn’t think God wanted more death on either side. Leaving before the service concluded, he vowed, I will never go to church again. He kept his vow.
When my grandfather died, his prodigal son had not returned to the church and seemed to have forgotten who Jesus was and why he came. My grandmother also died, leaving no one to pray for him in the early years of his marriage as he raised five children.
But God did not forget my grandparents’ prayers and desires. He sent someone to remind my dad that despite wars and misguided prayers, God is still good. He sent me. Although I had not grown up in church, I was introduced to Jesus and fell in love with him when I was 17.
Dad was not pleased when I began to attend church and was less pleased when I married a minister. He seemed disturbed years later by the news we’d be adopting older children. Perhaps it brought back sad memories.
Yet it proved healing for him to observe children in similar circumstances to his own, adopted into a minister’s family. We adopted three girls and one chubby-cheeked, cheerful, 3-year-old boy named Stephen, who reminded my dad of himself so long ago. Stephen, definitely his grandpa’s favorite, also prays for his grandpa.
My dad grew to love my husband, in spite of his being a minister. They like to talk about ships and engineering, gardening, my dad’s volunteer work. Only recently, since he’s been ill, will my dad discuss God and the Bible. He allows us to pray with him and is glad to be the beneficiary of the prayers of our church. He is slowly opening more of his heart to God’s love.
I never met my grandfather, but I have felt his prayers. I wonder how he felt as he prepared to die, so many prayers unanswered. I wonder if he understood that our lives may be as a vapor, but our prayers are not. In heaven, our tears are stored in bottles, our burdens are faithfully borne, our prayers echo through eternity.
I believe God will honor decades of prayer, fasting, and tears for just one man’s soul. I have hope that my dad will be ready to go home and greet his father and our Father. The Lord has been preparing him for eternity ever since a pastor with a father’s heart began to pray.
Linda Riley is director of Called Together Ministries in Torrance, California.
1997 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. For reprint information call 630-260-6200 or contact us.
