God's Healing Love Is Real

I have a story to tell about the beauty of little prayers. One that happened to me as a kid when I played Little League for the Hilton Hornets - a little prayer that took 20 years for an answer.

Our neighbor, Dr. O'Connell, asked me to water his rose garden every day for three weeks that summer while he was away. His rose garden was famous in northern New Mexico. And the cash sounded good. I pictured several movies with buttered popcorn.  

We walked into his rose garden where I saw another world. Red. Orange. Yellow. Wow. A maze of trails among tiers of railroad ties. A jungle of roses, I thought. I pulled down the bill of my Little League cap to cut the sun's glare.

"Remember to fill each rose trough until it's about half full. The sun gets scorching this time of year," he told me. I fidgeted. I didn't like conversation with adults. I wanted to go break in my new baseball glove.

I watered the plants every other day for the first week, reading the labels attached to each stem through the hour ordeal. Double Delight. Queen Elizabeth. Sutter's Gold. 

The second week boredom set in. On Monday I skimped a little on each flower, and thought about the batters I'd be facing that afternoon. A day or so later, we played the Rotary Dukes. It dawned on me I'd missed watering for a couple of days. I shrugged off the worry. How thirsty could they be anyhow? 

On Monday of the third week the flowers looked sort of weak. Petals floated up on the water as I hosed each trough. I gave them an extra amount to help them out. The week passed quickly. I hurled a one-hitter, then hit a triple against the Ready Kilowatts. I forgot the roses entirely.

The following Monday I remembered Dr. O'Connell and his jungle of roses. How many days had the roses gone without water? I felt too frightened to go and check. Fingers of shame squeezed my stomach like a vice. In practice I hit two batters with wild pitches. 

   

I ached with anxiety as I rode my bike home. Mom met me on the porch. She looked awful. "Dr. O'Connell came home today," she said. "All of his roses are dead." 

I wanted to disappear from Earth and never be heard from again. She shook her head and whispered, "He was crying."   

No punishment could have been worse than those words. That night a hideous feeling squirmed in my belly, my heart bursting with remorse. Before going to sleep, I prayed to God that I might someday make amends to Dr. O'Connell, but I knew that nothing could replace the rose garden, now a rose cemetery.  

I avoided Dr. O'Connell for the next 20 years. Oh, I thought about him all right, when I saw him out walking or driving his car. But I made sure he never saw me.  

Meanwhile, I was making progress in developing more of a balanced personality.  I became a doctor of psychology and published the first version of what is now The Self Compass: Charting Your Personality in Christ.

Back in my home town one Christmas, I was out for breakfast when Mary, Dr. O'Connell's daughter, came up to my table.  She asked to join me and we chatted. Then she asked, "Did you know that Dad passed away last month?"

"I'm sorry, Mary," I said, the old guilt flip-flopping in my belly.

"It's okay. He died very peacefully -- thanks to you."

I leaned forward, unsure I'd heard her right. But Mary told me that her father, a lifelong atheist, had come across my book about how Christ works in people's personality. How he read it during the last three days of his life. And how he changed. His last day, he led the family in their first prayer over dinner. And when he died, my book was resting in his lap. 

Tears flooded my vision. Mary gave me a hug: "And Dan, his last journal entry said, 'I know Christ's love is real.'"

At that moment, 20 years of guilt and shame melted away. I'd been unable to do it on my own, but with God's help, I had at last made amends to Dr. O'Connell.