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Sandy used to talk about folks having a life verse, something sort of special just for them. I don’t know how much I believe her. I mean, there’s billions of people in the world, and definitely not that many verses that can mean something unique, especially if you take out all the ones about who begat who and all those passages about God’s wrath and punishment.
When I graduated high school, Sandy picked a verse for me. I hate to admit that I don’t even remember what it was now. She said she prayed over it, and I’m sure she did. Probably spent a week’s worth of morning devotions pouring over her Bible, hunting for just the right passage that would apply to me, but I don’t recall being very impressed when I read it.
There’s something different about this verse, though. This time, I almost feel certain the words are meant for me. Or more specifically, they’re meant for my daughter. I will not die but live. It’s too much of a coincidence that this is the very first verse I read after I asked God to tell me something about Natalie’s future, right? I mean, it even lines up with what Grandma Lucy said.
For a minute, I wonder if she’s online. Maybe I can find her profile page or an email address or something. I don’t know what I’d say if I did, but I’m curious enough to risk the last bar of my cell phone batteries.
I find the webpage for Safe Anchorage Goat Farm right away. There’s pictures of the animals, the new babies, the mamas in their milk stands. There’s a map to their address on Baxter Loop and link that tells the history of the old farmhouse there.
Something in a sidebar catches my eye. It’s called Grandma Lucy’s Prayers for Healing. I click it right away. Another heavenly message?
What I read isn’t really an article. It’s like a scripted prayer. I guess you’re supposed to pray it over the person who’s sick. It’s a little bit rambling, just like Grandma Lucy’s speech in church last week, and it’s got tons of Scripture verses peppered throughout. I’m certain she’s the one who wrote it. I don’t even need her name in the title to tell me that.
I feel funny reading it like this. I’m sure there’s something to be said for praying off a piece of paper, but doesn’t it mean more when you pray it on your own? I mean, it’s the difference between a man getting down on his knee, looking you in the eye, and telling you all the reasons he wants to spend the rest of his life with you and just writing you a letter and reading it to you out loud.
I’d like to believe this prayer will work, but there’s something off about it. I can’t place my finger on what exactly. Maybe because Sandy’s husband was so against those faith healers on TV. Stuff and nonsense, he said. According to his theology, God’s able to do miracles, but that doesn’t mean we’ve got the right to run around shouting that anyone can be cured if they just believe strong enough.
Still, I’m curious enough about Grandma Lucy’s healing prayer that I bookmark the tab to go back to later. I want to let it settle in first. Or maybe that’s just the fear talking. Me not wanting to get my hopes up. Because if I go to battle, if I get on my knees and beg and plead with God to spare my daughter’s life and she doesn’t make it, I may never find the faith to trust him about anything in the future.
But isn’t that the exact opposite of what those faith healers say? They say you’ve got to believe even when it looks the bleakest. I’m sorry. I just don’t have that kind of blind allegiance. Sure, I know God might restore my daughter, but what if he doesn’t? I’m not about to put all my eggs in that one, fragile basket. Maybe if I were more mature. Maybe if I were a saint like Sandy or a prayer warrior like Grandma Lucy, this faith would come easier. But I’m just Tiff, the foster brat from Massachusetts. I’m nothing special. I’m lucky if God hears half of my prayers because most of them are so selfish anyway.
I glance around the Safe Anchorage website a little more until I forget what I came here for. To see if Grandma Lucy’s online so I can get in touch with her. Even if I don’t necessarily believe her magic prayer is the instant cure that’s going to heal my daughter, I’d like her to know we’re here at Children’s. I’d like her to know what’s going on. Who knows? Maybe she’ll pray her little enchanted words over Natalie and they’ll have more effect than my own feeble attempts would.
I see the farm has a social media account, so I click on the link. At the very least, maybe I can send Grandma Lucy a message that way. I wonder if she’ll even remember me.
My finger stops before I tap the next screen. My heart plummets like I’m on one of those stupid carnival rides except I’ve slipped out of the compartment and am free-falling to my death.
Her picture is right there smiling at me. Bright eyes, shock-white hair, spectacles sliding halfway down her nose. She’s cuddling a baby goat, trying to get it to take a bottle, and she’s laughing. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt as joyful as she looks.
Beneath the photo is the caption that literally socks me in the gut.
Please pray for Grandma Lucy, beloved friend, mentor, and prayer warrior. She’s just been taken by ambulance to County Hospital, and the doctors there think her heart is failing.
It can’t be.
The phone slips out of my hands and clatters on the floor.