An Open Ended Question on Hope and Unanswered Prayers

This is written from a Christian perspective; to be more specific, it is a Christian perspective that has difficulty with faith in praying for physical healing. I don’t ever doubt that God exists, or that Christ died for my sins, but I have a … hole… in my faith that really doesn’t let me whole hearted pray for someone’s healing.
One of the most troubling scriptures for me is a rather uplifting story in Mark 2: 1-12. Here is a short summary (from http://rotation.infopop.cc/eve/forums/a/tpc/f/4576068121/m/9876068121) A man who is paralyzed comes to the Healing Teacher Jesus. His friends help him to get past the crowds by lowering him through a hole in the roof. Seeing the friends' faith Jesus declares to the man, "Son, your sins are forgiven." His offer of forgiveness causes uproar among the religious leaders. Jesus invites the man to pick up his mat and walk. The crowd is amazed when the healed man walks through them.

This scripture inspires a bit of jealousy inside. It wasn’t the faith of the man who healed him necessarily, but the beyond expectations and out of the normal call of duty faith of his friends that inspires Jesus. The man is healed, and walks.

When I was young I had a child-like faith, strong, and trusting. Every night I prayed my brother would one day walk. Sometimes I was ambitious and prayed God would help Dustin to speak. Optimism, even if more guarded as an adult, has always had a stronghold in my personality. I believed God heard my prayers and that He was helping my brother. Whenever I saw a wishing well (so every mall we went to and many hospitals), I would throw in a coin and make the same wish: God, please help my brother to walk. My requests to my father for a coin to wish upon were so consistent that he would consciously check to make sure he had change before any shopping trip. Even if I had to fish my hand in the water to get a coin to throw in, I couldn’t walk by a wishing well without asking the only wish I ever put into a wishing well: God, please help my brother to walk. I even threw coins during high school, until my junior year. I’ve never used a wishing well since.

I was so sure as a child that my prayers mattered, were genuine, heard by God, for the good, and would be answered. I knew it might take time, but I was unfaltering in my confidence of God’s answer. I remember being brought into my brother’s special education classroom in grade school. They had built a special walk way for him, he had leg braces on, and a one on one para-educator that moved with him. He took five steps, each lumbering, hands on the rails, his waist held by the para. I’d repeat the experiment at home often, carrying the weight of my brother as he labored to move his legs. He didn’t like it much; I made him cry once or twice in the trying of it. Eventually he’d fuss before we tried, simply when I stood him up. My father got orders to move the family to a new base. The school there didn’t have the same equipment. My brother’s feet that had been surgically altered, were curling in again like club feet. Dustin’s progress stopped.
Almost dogmatic in my goal oriented determination, I kept trying. My brother was in middle school when my mother talked to me on our back porch, told me the doctors said Dustin probably would never walk, and that it was simply too expensive, troublesome, and painful to keep trying. She asked me not to lift him and have him take steps anymore. I thought of it as a lack of faith, doctors who hadn’t seem my brother over come all the odds, a school district that didn’t want to risk an investment in a miracle. I stopped trying to help my brother walk, except when both my parents were working. I’d try in secret, holding my brother, him hesitant, possibly in a bit of pain. I’d move his legs with my hands, stand him up straight, let more of the weight sit on his legs, and sometimes move his upper body to hold onto the couch or some rail so that I could look in his face and smile as he stood there. Sometimes he’d look back with something of a smile, sometimes a deep sigh, but almost always after about five seconds he’d bend his knees and let his bottom hit the ground, sometimes rather hard. My mother’s wisdom was farther than my own, I probably shouldn’t have been trying. He didn’t like it when his butt hit the ground hard…
My brother never walked. Five steps was about the farthest he ever got. He actually got worse at it; his body got heavier and his legs didn’t get much stronger. His arms gained strength though, and he was quite adept at patrolling on his own in the wheel chair. If you didn’t watch him he could go any where flat. He knew to be afraid of inclines or stairs. I’d probably taught him that when my arms couldn’t hold his weight and I dropped him down the last three stairs of my grandma’s porch. He didn’t trust me for awhile after that. I can’t blame him. My childlike hope and naive determination probably hurt my brother more than once when I was just trying to do him good. I didn’t want to accept my own limits, and I didn’t want to accept his; hard lessons to learn.
Nowadays I’m much better at accepting limits; certainly still not great, but perhaps a little less naive. However, there is a down side. It’s rare that I can bring myself to ask God to heal someone. I don’t mind praying for someone’s comfort, even laying my hand on someone to transfer the positive energy of prayer through touch. Yet, when I’m asked to pray for someone’s health or recovery, usually all I can get out is “God, your will be done.” In my heart I believe prayer is powerful and that praying for one another is a great gift; however, I don’t believe that the faith of anyone’s friends will bring about the miracle of walking. Well, maybe I do believe it, but my heart hurts to think about it. I want to believe it; I want to like that scripture. I don’t like that scripture.

Greg’s sermon today was in part about asking open ended questions. I have one. I know that God exists. I know that God loves me and my family. I know my brother was a great blessing. I know he never walked. I know I prayed for it pretty much every night until he died. I had hope, optimism, faith, and prayer. It didn’t work. My brother never walked.

God, here it is: In the Bible, when Jesus is around, faith healing seems really easy and really attractive. I tried God; I tried to be the friend that led my brother to healing through Jesus. I know he outlived expectations, and I know that’s a great blessing, but why was I allowed to believe and hope in something so passionately and not have it answered? Why is prayer so important to us when what it comes down to is your will, not ours? Why do we have unanswered prayers?
It made me angry to have my prayer unanswered. It made me feel the limits of my own faith. It made me mad at God to give me the beautiful gift of my brother and take him away. I’ve struggled with this for years. Most days, I’m not mad at God, and then some days, I remember how fervent those prayers were, and I’m mad that I was given such a high capacity for hope to not see the day that hope came through.
I had a conversation with a friend the other night and we talked about the losses in life and how they affect us. He told me he’d come to one conclusion: in life we’re meant to have hope. But we both knew that hope is hard to hold onto when things go wrong. He said death was the most destructive force on earth. It is. And this is where I fight myself.
I know part of me is angry that I was able to believe whole heartedly in something that never came to be. But I also know that when I say ‘never’ I’m holding the word to it’s earthly sense. I know death is destructive, and I know it tears up the people left behind, but I also know that death is a beautiful release. I often am told now my brother walks with the angles; the ambitious ones say he dances or jumps. I hate when they say that.
About a month after my brother dies I have a dream. In that dream the family is in Carlsbad Caverns, the last vacation spot the family went with all four of us. In the dream we are in the exact spot we were when he was alive, except it’s just me and him. He’s in his wheel chair, he gets up, he walks to me, gives me a hug, and says “Darcy, I love you, and you love me very much. I’m in a better place now.” A picture I bought and stamped his name to falls off my wall. I wake up, there’s a light from my window on that wall. My skin still tingles when I think of that dream. I knew my brother had come to say his good-bye. And he walked.
Next time I go to the mall, I’m taking a quarter, and even if I cry in public, I’m going to throw that quarter in that fountain, and I’m going to make a prayer for healing.
We’re meant to have hope in life, even after we’ve had unanswered prayers – and that’s hard… but we’re meant to… right?

(an open ended question is meant to inspire dialogue if you feel the impulse to answer or comment:)