The power of a wife’s prayer

A pastor asked a little boy if he said his prayers at night. “Yes sir,” the boy replied.

“And do you say prayers in the morning, too?” the pastor continued.

“No sir,” the boy answered. “I ain’t scared in the daytime.”

Fear can certainly move us to pray, although I should hasten to add, prayer should encompass our lives more often than just the times when we are afraid.

And there are moments when having someone else pray for you, (church people call it “intercession”) is a welcome relief when trouble strikes.

As a pastor, I sometimes pray for people before they have surgery. Years ago I decided to try and pray for my flock before the medical procedure rather than after it, although I’ve sometimes done both. It is comforting, people have told me, to have the pastor pray for them shortly before they receive the anesthetic.

But not long ago, as a patient myself, I learned something first hand: it certainly doesn’t have to be the pastor who prays.

My little procedure was far from major surgery. But it necessitated that they “put me under,” nonetheless. The nurse had processed my paper work earlier. I hadn’t thought much about the procedure until she asked if I had a living will, which I do, and if I was aware of possible complications, which I wasn’t.

I signed the document, acknowledging that I knew things could go wrong.

Then my mind went south with wrong scenarios.

It was prompted, I suppose, not just by the living will business, but also because my brother had died while under the anesthesia after the two of us had been in a car accident together.

But that’s been years ago.

Bad memories have a way a lurking in our past and presenting themselves at the most inopportune times.

I took comfort in the fact that the very capable nurse anesthetist had done hundreds of these. But what if she gets bored with the routine, I thought, and consequently is easily distracted or slips into a daydream about what she was going to do later in the day? What if she’s fatigued at this early hour and accidentally gives me too much propofol? After all, that’s the drug that led to Michael Jackson’s demise.

Anyone can make a mistake.

And what if the doctor, whose expertise I totally trusted, had had a bad night and didn’t sleep--- maybe he had had an argument with his wife, or a bout with indigestion, or perhaps his hot water tank had exploded, preventing him from taking a shower so that he wasn’t fully awake on the day I showed up for my minor medical procedure.

And voile, “Sorry, but I nicked you, ol’ boy,” he tells me as I’m writhing in pain. “It happens, you know. You will hopefully recover after several weeks of therapy.”

“We’re so sorry, Mrs. Whitlock,” I could hear a chaplain telling my wife, “this complication only occurs in about 1.6% of the cases, but your husband…”

Then the nurse’s voice shook me back to reality. “Your blood pressure is a little high, just breathe deeply and try to relax,” she told me as she prepped me for the procedure.

“Well, your blood pressure would be high too if you knew all the bad stuff I’ve been thinking about that could go wrong here,” I wanted to blurt out but didn’t because she quickly disappeared behind the curtain separating me from the other patients.

In a moment she opened the curtain again.

And there was my wife.

“How ya doing?” Lori gently asked.

I just nodded my head, “okay.”

“Everything alright?” she inquired.

“You know how I am when I haven’t had coffee,” I said, trying to mask my anxiety.

Without saying a word, Lori took my hand in hers.

And then she began to pray for me.

In that moment, she became my “pastor,” or at least my “intercessor.”

And by the time she said, “Amen,” my fears were relieved.

“You should check my blood pressure again,” I told the nurse, who had stepped back in my cubicle. “I think it’s okay now.”

“I’m not worried,” she said, “most people’s blood pressure is a little elevated before a procedure.”

If she wasn’t going to worry, then neither would I, I thought.

And besides, I had someone who had prayed with me and would continue praying for me.

As I breathed in the propofol and drifted away, I thought like the little boy, “I ain’t scared in the daytime.”