Answered Prayer?

Some ask whether God answers prayers. I’m smiling while I consider that question. Father’s just given me another sweet example, another to add to the pile of answers already given.

My family was supposed to host a speaker for a class we help coordinate: Perspectives on the World Christian Movement. The speaker was due to arrive last night and would be staying at our home for the next few days. 

We were eager to host him, but felt the pressures of our week closing in on us. Our backdoor shattered several weeks ago; it’s currently boarded up with shaky plywood. Our siding is decayed, so planks also board up a whole outside wall. Our patio is a pile of mud. Naturally, our home has been a construction zone for the past several weeks; workers are converging on us this week in particular. Family-wise, my brother leaves for college on Thursday, a friend of mine is already staying with us, my Mum has a website reveal scheduled soon, and I’m running like mad to complete scholarship applications, senior theses, and last-minute back-to-school rushes.

While changing the sheets for our guest, my mum voiced her concerns. Would he be bothered by the construction? Could he possibly work with the clutter and the noise? And would he feel unwelcome if we couldn’t talk with him? Perhaps we could place him in a hotel instead?

I didn’t have an answer, so we asked the one who did. “Okay, Father. We need you to tell us what to do. We don’t want to be inhospitable to our guest, but we’re worried that we won’t be able to welcome him properly. Tell us what to do.”

Then, we kept working.

My mum got a text yesterday evening. Another family in the Perspectives class had picked up our instructor at the airport. This man was texting to ask whether the instructor could stay with his family instead of ours’. His family had planned to host some friends from Ecuador, but their friends had canceled spontaneously. Now, our friends had space, particularly since their son had just left for college.

We were floored. Loud screams of, “Yes!!!!” and, “Thank you, Jesus!” filled our home. Say what?? We didn’t ask our friends to offer their home and we didn’t tell them of our concerns. The only person to whom we communicated our worry happens to have a wide social circle. Father heard. He responded. Oh, how good he is.




“When I got depressed in Rwanda, which was often, I liked to go driving.  On the road, the country resolved itself in rugged glory, and you could imagine, as the scenes rushed past and the car filled with smells of earth and eucalyptus and charcoal, that the people and their landscape – the people in their landscape – were as they had always been, undisturbed.  In the fields people tilled, in the markets they marketed, in schoolyards the girls in bright blue dresses and boys in khaki shorts and safari shirts played and squabbled like children anywhere.  Across sweeping valleys, and through high mountain passes, the roadside presented the familiar African parade: brightly clad women with babies bound to their backs and enormous loads on their heads; strapping young men in jeans and Chicago Bulls T-shirts ambling along empty-handed – save, perhaps, for a small radio; elderly gents in suits weaving down red-dirt lanes on ancient bicycles; a girl chasing a chicken, a boy struggling to balance the bloody head of a goat on his shoulder; tiny tots in ragged smocks whacking cows out of your way with long sticks.

Life.” – We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families: stories from Rwanda, Philip Gourevitch, pp. 178-9