Dear Lord, never let me
be afraid to pray for the impossible.

DOROTHY SHELLENBERGER

The earth is divided into two groups of people: those who like The Lord of the Rings and those who don’t. Ask my eldest child which book of earth is his favorite, and he won’t skip a beat. Ask him about a moment when his prayers seemed silly, and he just might smile broadly.

Without a doubt, Steve’s favorite book is a story of hobbits and Bilbo Baggins. All 23,000 pages of it. To my utter amazement, he had read all three books in the Rings trilogy by the age of ten. Before we celebrated his fifteenth birthday he had read them thrice and was gearing up for a fourth voyage. Crazy; I thought. He should be cleaning my car. He read them between playing basketball and ice hockey and table tennis. He read them in the evenings when he should have been studying. He read them late at night when he should have been snoring. The day I informed him that Peter Jackson was bringing the stories to life on the silver screen, he ricocheted around the living room, pumping his fists.

The filmmakers should have used my son as a consultant. From beginning to end, he can tell you more than you want to know about Middle Earth, about hobbits and goblins, about the “one ring to rule them all.”

Shortly after we attended the first movie together, Steve turned sixteen. This is an age when fathers and sons have whispered conversations about life and love and being all grown up. One night during one of those discussions, I spoke to him about the importance of reaching this milestone of manhood. How, like his favorite hobbit Frodo, he would be faced with great temptations and great opportunities as he journeyed through the darkness of this earth. I said I would like to present him with a small gift as a covenant between him and me that he would walk the way Frodo had walked, choosing to do the right thing, though it cost him everything. I talked of putting God first. Of faith. Of purity. He nodded his approval.

“What’s the gift?” he asked. When I told him, he smiled.

The next day I ordered the first item I’ve ever ordered on the Internet. Scary thing for me. Even scarier price.

On the evening the package arrived, we convened for a family ceremony. The children leaned in, wide-eyed, as I opened a small box. “Hey! It’s a Callaway golf ball! Just kidding,” I said, then pulled out a wooden box. Inside was a genuine replica of “the one ring.” White gold, complete with Elvish engravings.

“What about ours?” whined the other two.

“You wait,” I told them.

I read a short verse of Scripture: “‘So fear the LORD and serve him wholeheartedly,’ Joshua 24:14. For sixteen years that’s been our prayer for you, Steve. That you would honor God and serve Him.”

We prayed together, committing this child and his future to God. Then I took the ring, hung it from a gold chain, placed it about his neck, and kissed his forehead before he squirmed away.

There the ring stayed.

Until the night Steve arrived home from school carrying small pieces of the chain. He could scarcely bring himself to tell me.

It had broken, he knew not when.

The ring was gone, we knew not where.

We searched everywhere. Along sidewalks and hallways. Through classrooms and cars. Then we began looking in ridiculous places, like the toolshed and heating vents. Nothing. It was permanently gone, I knew. Hanging about someone else’s neck. Adorning another’s jewelry case.

So Steve began to pray.

His younger sister and brother joined him too. At suppertime, they prayed that we would find the ring. At breakfast they prayed, believing. I hated to doubt, but I am a grownup. I’ve gotten very good at it.

“There’s more chance of the Chicago Cubs winning the World Series,” I told my wife.

“They’re not even in it,” she said.

“Precisely.”

We had other things to pray about too, of course. Things that seemed just as impossible. Decisions related to Mom and Dad and life and work.

Steve told his grandparents about the ring. They didn’t know what a Frodo was, but they too began to pray.

Months passed. Winter came and went. The dazzling white snow that covered the field through which my son sometimes walks to school began to melt. And one evening as we sat down to eat together, I noticed a particularly broad grin on Steve’s face. As we ransacked a roast chicken, he told us he’d been walking home from school when a glint of reflected sunlight caught his eye. He then held his hand out and opened it.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. The ring. White gold, with Elvish etchings. As good as new. Back from Middle Earth.

Oh me of little faith.

Do you know what my prayer had been all this time? That he wouldn’t be too disappointed when his prayers weren’t answered. Here I was, praying that God wouldn’t dash the boy’s hopes too badly. There he was, asking God to do the impossible, something He has delighted in doing since the dawn of time.

The ring hangs about Steve’s neck from a sturdier chain now. I hope it will serve as a constant reminder to honor the Lord and serve Him wholeheartedly. I hope it will remind the rest of us that those who seek find, that those who ask receive, and that grownups of little faith sometimes get another chance.