My family is no stranger to tragedy. My mother’s first husband died after only two years of marriage. He was knocked off the scaffolding while building a silo for her father. He survived for a few days in a coma, but then died. She was a widow at age twenty-five, left with their seven-month-old son, Doug.
After seven years of widowhood, she met and married my father. Together, they had four children, of whom I am the youngest. Sadly, my brother, Nathan, born less than two years before me, drowned in our farm pond at the age of two, just a few days after his birthday.
When I was seven, I remember the pastor coming to our farm to give us the news of yet another tragedy. Doug, my oldest brother, had been killed on a farm where he worked. They found him pinned underneath a tractor, unsure of the exact details of what happened. He was so badly bruised they had a closed-casket funeral.
The next year, my mother’s father died of a bleeding ulcer. Two years later, her mother died from a stroke. Death kept ringing the family doorbell. I wanted it to go away.
Every family has stories. In our family, understandably, it seemed like death was my mother’s central subject. I absorbed the tragic stories like a sponge. Nobody seemed to notice. We all had our own pain.
As if talking about death weren’t enough, we’d go and visit family graves on the holidays. Now that’s quite a holiday tradition for a little girl! In my mind, it felt like we owned half of the cemetery—a city block of graves. Each visit, while my mother stood there looking at the names of my brothers, grandparents, and other loved ones, I was looking at her tombstone. Her birthdate was listed, but the death date remained ominously blank, waiting to be filled in. Each time, I’d turn away, anxious to get out of there.
The blank space on her gravestone is now filled in: September 24, 2014.
While she lived, she clung to the power of prayer. I believe this is what carried her through the tumultuous years. On less tragedy-stricken days, we’d pray about simple things, and that’s how I learned to pray. Almost every Wednesday night it seemed, just before prayer meetings at church, the cows would get out of the barnyard. We’d pray that they’d come back home. It seemed to work. It was good prayer practice.
A few years ago, I was asked to sing for a local National Day of Prayer event. As I thought about the many songs I could sing, I was dissatisfied. It wasn’t that there weren’t any good songs to choose from, I just felt they weren’t saying what I wanted to convey. So, naturally, I set out to change that by writing my own. But as I tried to write, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find any words. Even with the long list of tragedies our family experienced and the way my mother modeled prayer, I still came up with nothing.
Then another tragedy happened. But this time, it wasn’t my family that suffered. News came of a tragic vehicle accident involving a young boy I knew. Drawing from the empathetic sadness rising up inside me, I pondered how the mother and sister of this young boy would be feeling in the days, months, and years to come. Their journey would be anything but easy.
I Can Pray
by Frances Drost
Her little baby died today
They couldn’t bring him back they say
And she never had a chance to say goodbye
She cries
They said it was an accident
But now she blames herself for it
And there’s nothing I can say
That can take away her pain
And set her free
But I can pray
I can reach heaven for her heart
I can pray
To Someone who knows more than I
And understands the painful part of living
Even when I don’t
I can pray
His little heart is torn in two
They say his mom and dad are through
And they’ve tried to make it clear
It’s not his fault
No matter what they try to say
He’s still feeling like he’s to blame
So I take his tiny hand
Try to help him understand
But it’s no use
But I can pray
I can reach heaven for his heart
I can pray
To Someone who knows more than I
And understands the painful part of living
My earthly words take hold with power from on high
And make a difference in this life, somehow
I can pray
I can reach heaven for his heart
I can pray
To Someone who knows more than I
And understands the painful part of living
Even when I don't
I can pray
Copyright © 2022 by Frances Drost.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
This story was taken from the book, Inside Things. The book and CD are available for purchase here.
