I Can Pray

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.

 

I Can Pray

My family is no stranger to tragedies. We know what it's like to hurt.

When my Mother was twenty-five, her husband fell from a silo. She was left with a seven-month-old son, Doug.

Eventually, she married my father. They had four children—Adriel, Brenda, Nathan, and Frances.

Nathan drowned in our pond when he was two. I was six months old. My brother, Doug, died in a tractor accident when I was seven. The last of my grandparents died when I was twenty-two.

Death was a frequent part of our family discussions.

On holidays we visited the graves—memorials to those we lost. I hated standing in the graveyard waiting for my mother to be done visiting each grave. It was uncomfortable.

I watched my mother make it through all of those painful parts of living by praying. She believed in prayer. She prayed about everything.

On less tragedy-stricken days, we’d pray funny prayers (at least I thought they were funny)—such as "Please God, bring the cows back home," when they escaped from the barnyard. Prayer was as much a part of our life as doing the farm chores. Given all of our family experiences, you’d think I could easily write a song about prayer.

When I was asked to sing for a National Day of Prayer event I didn't feel like any of the songs I knew about prayer said what I wanted to say. I wanted my own song to sing.

I could hear a melody (and four simple words) that could be the chorus, but I couldn't seem to write more than these four words...."But I can pray."

I knew that I wanted to show the contrast between life's struggles, the ineptness we feel when someone is hurting, and the power of prayer. I knew the verses would lead me to the chorus...somehow.

I waited for more words to come.

Then we got the news. 

A tragic car accident—a young boy and his mother. She was driving him to school...a head-on collision. The boy didn’t survive the crash.

I knew the family. It shook the community.

I pondered the events in my heart, watching the mother struggle with the loss of her son, a sister with the loss of her brother. I knew it would be hard. We all struggled to know what to say.