“Dear father, help my words and the words from your Holy Word make an impact on everybody who was there tonight. Have your Holy Spirit work in their lives. You know the hurts out there, Lord. You know what every soul is going through. Show them your face. Lord, show them what the cross really, truly means.”

It was late Sunday night and I was praying in my office before bed. I wish I could say I did this every night in earnest. Sure, I prayed, but tonight I was making a conscious decision to pray for every single person who took one of those crosses. They were symbols, that was all. But I knew that the Spirit could do whatever He wanted. He could use words and symbols and even donkeys to speak to people.

I’ve always loved the story about Balaam’s donkey. I’ve often compared myself to him.

“Whatever hardship or obstacle or spiritual attack or failure is troubling someone, take it away. Let them know you’re there. Let them turn everything over to you. Let me know to continue to turn things over to you. Crush our egos. Erase our regrets. Let us ask for forgiveness and know that it’s only through the cross and the blood of Jesus that we can even pray to you, that we can ask for mercy. Pour that mercy over us, Lord. Pour it over me.”

So many names rushed by in my mind. Joe and J.D. and Teri and Bobby and Elena and their boys and so many others. I could see faces, especially the young African-American boy sliding into the pew in the middle of the service. I had seen the police searching the aisles. I had wondered about him.

“Whatever his name is, and whatever is happening in his life, Lord, please bless him. Please shine your grace on his life. If he doesn’t know you, Lord, please open up his heart. Move in his soul. Give him hope tonight. Give us all hope. I ask these things in the name of Your son Jesus. The only name that counts. Help me—help us—to remember that.”

My mind wandered to those who hadn’t been able to make it, people like Maggie and others I knew who had been invited but still remained away. I prayed for them, too, asking for the hope to go find them wherever they might be. To knock on their doors and to not stop pounding away.

Meanwhile, our house was still. Too still. Like a black fog sweeping over a town and forcing everybody inside. It was a quiet that carried a heavy weight.