My son Grant is now a sweet young man in his twenties, challenged by a residual brain injury, but he is articulate, holds a job, lives with friends of comparable skills, and derives great joy from music. Grant astonishes people with his uncanny ability to sing and remember the lyrics to hundreds and hundreds of songs, particularly country-western music.
One of his favorite performers is Garth Brooks, whose music I’ve heard scores of times when we travel by car. One song sticks in my mind: “Thank God for Unanswered Prayers.”
. . . just because he doesn’t answer, doesn’t mean he don’t care.
Some of God’s greatest gifts are unanswered prayers.1
Garth Brooks was singing about a man who was somewhere with his wife when he suddenly encountered an old girlfriend. Years before, this was the girl of his dreams. He recalls that every night he prayed about her, asking God to “make her mine.”
Now with the clarity of hindsight, it strikes him that she wasn’t quite the angel he’d thought she was.
If you’re honest with yourself, you’ll probably remember that this has happened to you. Your hormones might have been screaming that you’d found Mr. Right—the love of your life—or the girl of your dreams. You prayed that this person would feel the same about you.
Then your prayer wasn’t answered. You wondered—or demanded—“Hey, God! Why aren’t You listening to me?”
Perhaps another time you were convinced you’d found exactly the right job; you prayed hard for it, and it went to somebody else.
Then there was the time that you wanted something badly —a trip, an apartment, an event. You prayed for it, and it didn’t happen.
In each case, your prayer was not answered.
At least not the way you had prescribed.
But then, with the clear view of time, you were later able to realize that unanswered prayers are sometimes a real blessing. You could see how that guy or girl would have been totally wrong for you; how that job would have prevented you from getting another, better job; or how that “something” that didn’t happen was actually not in your best interest.
So many times the candidate had prayed for good health. But this?
The doctor spoke solemnly: “You’ve got prostate cancer. We need to treat it right away. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’ll have to drop everything you’re doing—including your run for the Senate.”
He stared at his doctor. This wasn’t a joke. As outlandish as it seemed, the guy was dead serious.
Why? Why me? were the words screaming inside of him. Alone, he prayed that the doctor was wrong or—if he wasn’t—for a miraculous cure. He prayed for the wisdom to know what to do.
In a matter of hours, newsrooms throughout the state received notice that the candidate had scheduled an important news conference.
The media seemed stunned as the candidate looked into the cameras and said: “We don’t always know why these things happen to us in life . . . but in the end . . . they seem to have a way of working themselves out.”
That was May 2000.
Sixteen months later, on September 11, 2001, we all found out why—why Rudolph Giuliani was still in the office of mayor of New York City.
And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.
—ROMANS 8:28 NIV
Think about it. If Giuliani had not had prostate cancer and had remained in the race for the Senate against Hillary Clinton, win or lose, he wouldn’t have been mayor on 9/11. He would not have been the calming voice for a mourning and shocked nation.
Why hadn’t God answered Giuliani’s prayers for a healing? Was this an unanswered prayer? Was the prostate cancer God’s way of placing Giuliani on the path He wanted him on? To fulfill His destiny for him?
Giuliani believes so.
“My experience with cancer prepared me for what I had to do after 9/11,” he said, “to comfort families during those very difficult days.”
ANOTHER PERSPECTIVE
Perhaps Giuliani’s terrible news has been matched by something in your own life—something that was delivered to you with the verbal grace of a sledgehammer.
The doctor tried his best to be sympathetic, but telling you the unvarnished truth—partly out of a sense of responsibility and partly out of a fear of being sued—made you wish he’d sugarcoated it. Bottom line, something was wrong with you—something you never expected, something that happens to others, but . . . “why . . . why me?”
Yea, though I walk through the valley . . .
—PSALM 23:4 NKJV
Or maybe you associate those words with the day a company bureaucrat wore a dour, downcast look and told you in a rehearsed voice that your position was being “downsized.” It probably struck you that corporate America’s catchword for “you’re fired” only sounds better to make them feel better.
Once again, the primordial words surged from your lips: “Why? Why me?”
Or perhaps you heard the brutal message of a spouse—a message not entirely unexpected, but so fearful to face, it was subconsciously shoved way back in your mind. A message that hit you as a surprise even though it wasn’t.
“I want a divorce.”
“What! Why? Why me?” you cried.
We’ve all had the experience of looking heavenward and asking: “God, why me?”
Terrible things happen to everyone. Sooner or later, we all have to walk through the valley.
In the Bible, David never suggested we could go around the valley or over it. We all have to go through it.
But the nice thing about valleys is that there is an end to them. No matter how dark it seems, there’s a time when it will end and you’ll break into the sunshine. And that is the concept you need to hang on to—that there is an end to terrible times, to the feelings of loss of control and to the total absence of suitable remedies.
I’m an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them never happened.2
—MARK TWAIN
Valleys also have signposts. All along the way God provides winks of reassurance for you to see. Just like on the darkest interstate, a signpost every once in a while is a welcome message of reassurance—a reminder that you’re on track, to keep going.
She needed money. A single mom with two kids to raise, Ruth Fertel wasn’t making ends meet as a Tulane University lab technician.
The ad in the paper seemed to jump out at her: “For sale, Chris Steak House.” A veteran New Orleans restaurateur, Chris Matulich, was selling his business.
“I can do that,” said Ruth positively.
That was a big idea. Having experience running a restaurant was not something on Ruth’s resume.
But . . . she had faith in God. She believed in herself. And she knew that the name Chris Steak House had great value. For forty years they’d built up a loyal clientele. All she had to do was keep it going.
So Ruth Fertel mortgaged her house for $18,000 to buy the restaurant. From that day forward, the woman with a degree in chemistry and physics learned restaurant management on the job.
“I don’t know whether I was naive or just plain old stupid, but I never thought I would fail,” she said, years later. “The hours were terrible, but customers saw how hard I was working, and they wanted me to succeed. Besides, I thought my employees would respect me more if I worked right alongside them, so I did.”
For the next ten years her business grew stronger and stronger. They went from selling 35 steaks a day to 250.
Then disaster struck.
Her restaurant burned to the ground.
She owed a large sum of money, so if she didn’t reopen right away, she’d be bankrupt. Moreover, being out-of-sight-out-of-mind for any length of time would be deadly for business.
What to do. What to do.
Ruth was in tears when she arrived at her banker’s office, hoping he might have an idea.
“Why don’t you just reopen in the building you already own down the street?” suggested the banker.
Ruth thought about it. Not a bad idea. She’d purchased the other location nearby for wedding receptions and private parties. But how could she get it ready quickly?
Then a godwink.
“It just so happened that a man who did construction was in the bank at the time,” said Ruth. “He said he could get my new location open in a week. And he did.”
But just as they were about to move in, Ruth was given more bad news. Her attorney reminded her that the original agreement stipulated that the name Chris Steak House could only be used in the original location. By moving to a new address, she could be sued.
Now what to do? She couldn’t very well change the name of a business that she’d spent a decade building up, not to mention the untold value of the prior forty years in which the restaurant operated under that name.
Ruth thought about it for a moment. She said a quick prayer.
“I don’t have time to do a marketing study on the name, and I can’t afford a lawsuit. So just put my name in front. That’s it,” she said decisively to her attorney and again later that day to her sign maker and menu printer.
They all looked at her blankly.
“Just add my name in front of it,” she repeated to them. “Just call it Ruth’s Chris Steak House.”
It was a mouthful. And we’re not talking steak.
Almost without missing a beat, Ruth opened in the new location just seven days later.
When her restaurant had burned to the ground, she had looked heavenward and said: “Why, why me, Lord?” Then when she rolled up her sleeves and got to work at solving the problem, a wonderful blessing unfolded—another godwink: the original restaurant only sat sixty people. That caused a two-hour wait to get in, discouraging some potential customers. But the new restaurant—Ruth’s Chris Steak House—seated 160.
“Business just boomed again,” said Ruth.
The following year, Ruth started franchising. That’s when she learned that outside of New Orleans the name was a serious liability—people seemed to be continually mispronouncing it: “Ruth’s Chrises” or “Chris’s Ruth.” One man in San Antonio called it the stupidest name he’d ever heard, and only after he was coaxed in and tasted the steak, did he change his mind.
If you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain.3
—DOLLY PARTON
Like every other time, Ruth said a prayer and faced the name problem head-on. In Baton Rouge, Houston, and Dallas, she came up with an advertising campaign that said: “We know we have a funny name, but we have great steaks.” Another ad boldly said: “Our steak is so extraordinary, it needs two names.”
Soon food critics, charmed by the odd name and the self-deprecating advertising, started writing about the restaurants, giving Ruth’s Chris Steak House topnotch ratings.
Facing the devastation of having her restaurant being destroyed by fire was one thing. But coming up with that name at the last minute—“That was the smartest mistake I ever made,” said Ruth Fertel.
Over the years, Ruth uttered many prayers asking the Lord to help her build her business, but having a fire destroy her restaurant wasn’t one of them. Later she could see that the fire was an unanswered prayer—it moved her into a larger space and inspired the unique name that we all know today, at nearly ninety Ruth’s Chris Steak Houses across America.
It has been said that my wife, Louise DuArt, is one of the world’s best comedic impressionists. (I’d say the best, if she’d allow it.) That means she has the remarkable ability to turn on a dime into a hundred different personalities—from Barbara Walters to Judge Judy; Marge Simpson to Kermit the Frog.
Yet strange as it may seem, the opportunity to develop a character for an animated children’s television series had somehow eluded her.
You can imagine the thrill when one day she received a call from a casting director at an animation studio.
“Steven Spielberg is doing an animated series for TV, and he’s designed a character perfect for you,” said the woman. “A rabbit who does impressions.”
“Wow. What a prayer answered!” shouted Louise.
She promptly called her mother back East.
“Steven Spielberg is doing his first animated series ever, Tiny Toons, and he’s designed a character that fits me to a T,” she bubbled, wondering if Spielberg even knew she existed.
No matter how right the casting director thought she was for the part, this was Hollywood, and performers had to prove themselves by auditioning. Louise prayed all the way to the studio that she’d make the famous director pleased by his insight in selecting her.
She arranged the pages of the script on the music stand in front of her, adjusted her headphones, and waited for the casting director’s cue.
In her mind, she had warmed to this rabbit. She imagined a funny, dynamic cartoon star with great lines and series stature. She was already thinking how she could invent some signature one-liners for the character—utterances that everyone would remember, like Fred Flintstone’s, “Yabbadabbadoo” . . . or Bugs Bunny’s, “Eh, what’s up, Doc?”
The casting director motioned for her to start.
When Louise opened her mouth, she was shocked. A cracked croak emerged. The more she tried to speak, the more hoarse she became.
“Oh, no,” she rasped. “I can’t believe this!”
The casting director came into the studio, handed her tea, and quietly suggested she relax. Louise felt an arm on her shoulder, with comforting words: “Don’t worry. We’ve got a week to make our recommendations. Come back then. We’ll get it.”
All the way home, Louise could not fathom why she’d had no warning that something was wrong with her voice. This was a totally new experience. She’d never lost her voice in several years of doing voice work.
She stopped at a drugstore and bought every throat remedy she could find, seeking speedy recovery.
Over the next week, she only had bad news to report to the casting director, who anxiously monitored Louise’s progress on a daily basis. The deadline was extended, but Louise’s voice failed to improve.
Eventually she heard the words she dreaded: “I’m sorry, Louise. We’ve got to move on.”
What devastation! She was heartbroken.
For weeks she wondered, Why? Why did this happen, God? That was my part!
Then she did the only thing she could do—she got on with life.
She did, after all, have an active career. In fact, one of two Showtime specials was about to be telecast, and when she was back in full voice, her producers asked her to go to New York City for a promotional appearance on Good Morning America.
It was during that trip that Louise experienced another unbelievable godwink. On a whim, she took in a hot Broadway show, Catskills on Broadway.
“An odd feeling came over me as I entered the Lunt Fontaine Theater,” she recalled. “A feeling that I belonged there.”
After the show, she and her friend decided to do the “in” thing—grab a bite at Sardi’s famous theatrical restaurant.
They talked about the fun and simplicity of a show that starred three famous comedians—Freddie Roman, Dick Capri, and Mal Z. Lawrence, each with a history of performance in Catskill Mountain resorts—and the lone woman, impressionistic singer Marilyn Michaels.
Louise was just starting to tell her companion about the strange feelings she had upon entering the theater when a waiter brought drinks to the table.
“Compliments of the gentlemen behind you,” said the waiter, nodding to the benefactors.
Rising from his chair, wearing a large grin, was Freddie Roman—from the show they had just seen.
“Louise, you won’t believe this! I was just telling the guys, ‘If Marilyn Michaels ever leaves the show, I know just the person who could do it. Louise DuArt . . . I met her on a Vegas talk show one time, but I don’t know how to reach her.’ What a coincidence. I look up and there you are!”
The next few weeks were a whirlwind. It turned out that Marilyn Michaels was leaving the show, and Louise was asked to fill in for two weeks. She won the hearts of audiences, and at the end of the trial run, she won the part.
Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out.4
—JOHN WOODEN, COACH
“It was a dream bigger than I could possibly believe,” she recollected. “A starring role on Broadway had been placed right in my lap through an unbelievable godwink.”
Only on reflection did everything start to make sense. She realized that if she had won the part that was “perfect for her”—Spielberg’s impressionist rabbit in Tiny Toons—she wouldn’t have been available to take on something even bigger—a starring role on Broadway.
Through the clarity of hindsight, she now sees God’s tapestry. The Broadway show changed her life—paving the path for the happiness she has today. This, she quietly acknowledges in conversation with God, was clear evidence of the power of unanswered prayer.
THE HIDDEN BLESSING
The next time one of those earth-shattering things happens to you—a rotten medical report like Giuliani’s, a disaster like Ruth Fertel’s, or an opportunity lost like Louise’s—take a moment to reflect on unanswered prayers. It is God’s way of moving you from one direction to another.
At the time it will be painful. It will shock and assault your psyche. You’ll want to throw a rock through a window or bang your head on a wall.
But you won’t.
Instead, I hope you will lift this book off the shelf and reread this chapter, comparing your situation with the ones I’ve told you about.
Then get yourself that Garth Brooks CD and play it as loud as you can stand. Sing along about how God’s unanswered prayers are among His greatest gifts.