Last night was a special Father-Son moment. We sat down on the couch to read a pre-bedtime story: the story of the resurrection of Jesus. He was not found in the tomb, because he was - he is - alive! He talked to his friends, they believed, they rejoiced.
After the story, my son looked at me and said, "I want to hear Jesus, Daddy." I told him to tell that to Jesus. And so he did, "Jesus, I want to hear you... for Easter."
I must confess: in that moment, I prayed the kind of prayer I used to pray. I asked God for something, and I did so believing with 100% confidence that it would be given. I asked God that he speak to my son. I asked with every ounce on faith in my body.
We sat in silence for about 3 minutes. A precious 3 minutes in which I listened, I heard, and I basked in the glow of coming blessings.
"Did you hear anything?" I asked.
I smiled, thankful for his honesty and thankful for what was coming.
As he went to bed, I told him to keep listening.
This morning, Easter morning, we dressed ourselves, ate breakfast and headed out. Because I was helping to lead worship at a local church, we left early. On the way, I asked my son, "Did you hear from Jesus?"
"What did he say?"
"He said He's coming."
And I thanked God. Later in the day he told me the same thing. I can't see my computer screen right now for the tears.
Where has that kind of prayer life gone? Why is it so hard to believe?
The kind of prayer that moves mountains, the kind of prayer that speaks to the hearts of 4 year-old boys. That's the kind of prayer that I want to participate in.