I’m probably no different than a lot of other people.  My parents taught me to pray.

I was taught to give thanks for my meals. I was taught the Lord’s prayer. I was taught the famous “Now, I lay me...”, which (as I understand) is not exactly ecclesiastically fashionable anymore— with its supposedly scary “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord, my soul to take...” line.

Well, you’ll be glad to know that I didn’t grow up psychologically (or spiritually) traumatized because of that one line. If anything, I rather enjoyed “Now I lay me down to sleep...”— though I have to admit, after years of repeating it, I probably liked it more for its poetic rhythm than for the words themselves. In fact, it was almost fun at the end of the day to see how fast I could repeat it with my mother joining in at bedside. By the time I was ten, Now I lay me... probably sounded more like Rap.

But it wasn’t long, of course, before I prayed my first REAL prayer. Past a certain point, a child becomes a liturgist. What I mean is that (past a point) church and faith become habits— patterns of mere existence— and (for mercy’s sake) the Living God has to do something about the situation. 

Well, He did.

For me, it came on a hike up the south side of Carpenter Creek, near New Denver, British Columbia. My Father and I (plus that trusty beagle named “Pepper” I spoke about in “A Founding Metaphor”) set out early in the morning along a well-marked trail that climbed slowly up the canyon. Dad left instructions to Mom that he thought we’d reach the Three Forks bridge by early afternoon, and that if she drove up the highway on the north side of the valley, she’d probably intercept us at some point along the road.

We had no idea.

The trail, which these days might have been beaten down by a hundred ATVs, degenerated into an appalling thoroughfare for the growth of alder and other forms of brush. We wouldn’t have been able to make the deadline, especially given our exploration of the numerous abandoned mines in the area, even if we’d come equipped with machetes. By the time we’d reached the old Alamo mine, it was already mid-afternoon, and my trusty hound (who’d always been ahead of us in his persistent tracking of all critters great and small) was by now content to hold up the rear of our walking formation. We were all kind of “done”.

It was about then that personal panic began to set in.  I knew Mom would be looking for us. Moreover, I knew she’d be worried about us. And the highway that she was on was often well above the creek level on the opposite side, and obscured by many trees in-between.

Now, in the days of cell phones and high technology, we might have been able to contact her (maybe), but this was some years before cell phones even got going in New York, let alone New Denver. 

Finally, my father theorized that we probably couldn’t wait for the bridge at Three Forks, and would need to cross the river, dog and all, and climb to the highway side. That didn’t exactly thrill me as a prospect, given the fact that Carpenter Creek has a vigour about it that belies its name, plus my beagle had a far better doggie-paddle than I did— to say the least.

Dad, I’ll save you the trouble;  why not just give me the body-bag right now?

So, in the shadows that were lengthening towards supper time, while worrying over a mother who was probably frantic and a dog who looked more tired than I did, and while contemplating swimming when I didn’t really know how, Dad went down to look at the creek— to find a place where the water might be shallow enough to cross. And, in that moment, I found myself praying my first, real, from-the-gut, I’m-serious-Lord, prayer...

“God, help me.”

I had barely finished my prayer, when I heard my father laugh. And he came up from the river’s edge. Just ahead of us was the Three Forks bridge. We soon crossed it, and reached the main highway. Due to the lateness of the hour, the silence of the dog, and the “barking” of my feet, I stuck out my thumb to hitch a ride.

But Dad would have nothing to do with mere thumbs. He waved the first vehicle down. And if it weren’t obvious that my other Father had shown up with the first bit of help, the next response was even more intriguing.

The first vehicle by was a pickup with a camper unit, and even though my father merely asked for a message to be sent to my mother at the New Denver village campsite, I watched in surprise as the entire family filed out of the cab of the truck, and invited us to get in while they rode inside the back of the camper itself. So Dad, and I (and Pepper)climbed inside the cab.

I don’t remember much about the conversation. In that hour, I remember more about the grace that I received at the hands of perfect strangers. But what struck me most was a sticker that had been pasted on the dashboard of the inside of the vehicle. All it said was “Jesus is Lord”. I stared at it plenty, all the way back to New Denver.

This side of heaven, I may never know who that family was, and why that sticker was on the dashboard of their camper, and not the bumper, but if they ever read this, I would want them to know that their gracious witness helped change my life. It took me from a hollow prayer life to a more authentic prayer life.

One doesn’t tend to forget (as one ages) the direct relationship between one’s first real prayer, the helping witness that came from the saints, and the Lordship of Jesus Christ. The three seem integrally linked.

Admittedly, I am connecting the dots here. But I’d say that Jesus saves...

© 2008 David MacKenzie                                You can reach me at: 4regency@telus.net