Thank goodness I had my minister, Bill, with me while I waited out my husband’s kidney operation. I would have hated to be here alone.

The thought made me look over at the other person in the waiting room. A young woman sitting on the floor with an empty baby carrier beside her. I guessed by her attire that she came from Africa.

“Do you think we should offer to pray for her?” I asked Bill.

“That’s a good idea,” he said. “Go ahead.”

Me? He was the professional here. I didn’t have any experience praying with strangers!

I approached her timidly. I knew different cultures have different views on personal space. I didn’t want to offend her. “Would you like to pray with me?” I asked.

The woman nodded and moved to a chair. I sat down beside her. Without thinking, I put my arm around her shoulders and took her hand in mine.

Why did I do that? I thought. Hadn’t I just reminded myself to respect her space?

If she was offended, she was too polite to say so. The two of us prayed for several minutes and then chatted on and off for the next few hours. My new friend was from Nigeria. Her daughter, Grace, was having open-heart surgery. When the tiny baby was finally wheeled by on a gurney, the woman leaped up to follow.

That was the last I saw of her until a week later. I’d arrived to take my husband home but was a little early, so I decided to check on baby Grace in the neonatal intensivecare unit. Try not to throw your arms around her mother, I warned myself.

Grace was sleeping peacefully with her mother beside her. She would be going home soon. I knew that that news was an answer to her mother’s prayer. But it turned out it wasn’t the only one.

“That day in the waiting room I was so desperate,” she confided to me. “When you walked over, I had just asked God to send someone to put their arm around me and pray.”

Download your FREE ebook, A Prayer for Every Need, by Dr. Norman Vincent Peale.

You know the saying: “Two steps forward and three steps back”? That pretty much summed up my life as a single mom. I was raising two teenagers on a teacher’s aide’s salary.

It wasn’t nearly enough to cover the bills, so I moonlighted as a waitress. Every time I thought that I had found a solution to my money worries, something would fall through and I would end up feeling worse off than before.

The latest setback? The new job I’d applied for—the job I’d prayed to get, the job I just had to get—went to someone else.

I don’t know what to do, Lord, I prayed that night, sobbing in my family room. Please tell me things are going to be okay.

The next evening at the restaurant I tied on my apron, wishing I could be home with my kids. I walked up to my first table. A cheerful older couple. The woman gave me a smile that warmed me. I couldn’t help but notice her unusual glass ring. “What a beautiful ring,” I said.

We chatted for a minute then I took their order and left. When I came back with their drinks, the woman held out her ring. “God told me to give this to you,” she said.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” I said, embarrassed.

She gently placed the ring in my hand and closed my fingers around it. “It’s yours,” she said. “God also wants me to tell you things are going to be okay.”

Right there at their table in the middle of the restaurant I broke down in tears. I told her that I’d asked God for those very words. “Thank you for giving me hope,” I said.

Long after that night, that sense of reassurance stayed with me. I knew the right job would come in time.

Nine months later it did. I got a better position at another school and I started waitressing at a restaurant where I worked shifts that allowed me to spend more time with my kids.

Now in these tough times, I have money worries again, but they don’t get me down. I know things will turn out okay. And when I wear that unusual glass ring, I’m reminded I’m not alone. I know God is always one step ahead, providing for my every need.

I was packing that morning when I heard a shrill whistle. I rushed into the living room only to discover it came from the TV. We were preparing to go to Montrose, Colorado, with our 10-week-old baby, Leslie.

As we drove through the mountains that afternoon, big sleety drops of rain turned into heavy wet flakes of snow. Near the top of Fremont Pass, traffic slowed and we could barely see. I nursed Leslie and then Neil pulled over and held her. “Is something wrong?” I asked when Leslie’s cry suddenly became low and husky.

Neil handed her back to me in a panic. She was coughing and gasping. I patted her on the back, but she turned bluish gray and seemed to stop breathing. I began to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but without oxygen she could go into respiratory arrest. “Lord,” I prayed, “save my baby.”

Just then the shrill sound of a whistle pierced the swirling snow. “That’s a mine over there,” I called to Neil. “Someone will have oxygen there.”

Neil started the car and crossed the road to the gate of a molybdenum mine. We flagged a guard, told him our problem, then raced down the drive, where two nurses met us with an oxygen tank. I put the huge mask over Leslie’s ashen face and, slowly, she began breathing again.

Later we went to a hospital, where tests confirmed that Leslie was all right. The doctor there had one question: “How did you know there would be oxygen at the mine?”

The shrill sound I had heard that morning was a mine whistle blowing in a rerun episode of The Waltons. I watched just long enough to see a miner revived—with oxygen.

First grade was a notable year for me. I learned to read, and I was introduced to Mr. Bunsen the Rabbit, who got into all sorts of adventures.

One night I finished up my homework and got into my pajamas. Then I got down on my knees to say my prayers. Reading was new for me, but I was an old hand at praying. I’d been going to church since before I could talk.

Momma said going to church was one of the most important things a person could do, so if the doors were open we were there. I knew God listened to all our prayers, both in church and at home. And tonight I had a very special prayer to make. “I want a rabbit of my own,” I said. “I promise I’ll take real good care of him. I’ve got plenty of room for him. I won’t let him get into any scrapes as bad as Mr. Bunsen does. And don’t worry about Buzzard. He’s a bird dog. He likes rabbits just fine.”

When I was under the covers Momma came in to kiss me good night. “What did you pray for?” she asked, tucking me in.

“I prayed for a rabbit,” I said. “A rabbit of my own.”

Momma didn’t seem to think my prayer was quite right. “Now, Van,” she said, “that’s not the kind of thing we pray for. Things for ourselves.”

“Okay,” I said, but my mind was full of rabbits. It was too late. I’d said my rabbit prayer, and I knew God heard it. Even if Momma didn’t think it was a proper prayer.

I didn’t bring it up again with her the next morning. Nor did I tell any of my friends about it at school. I just waited for God’s answer. When I got home Momma was at the door. “I’ve got something to show you,” she said. I followed her into the utility room. Buzzard trailed behind me. Momma reached into a shoebox on the washing machine and pulled out something small and furry. It wiggled in her hand. A baby rabbit!

“Early this morning I came out to do some washing,” she said. Her voice was hushed, the way she sounded when she talked about miracles. “Buzzard came in and laid this wild baby rabbit at my feet.” Momma put the little rabbit in my hands. “God answered your prayer,” she said, mystified. “I guess God does answer rabbit prayers after all!”

Truth be told, I didn’t understand that a miracle had happened. I’d never doubted God would give me a rabbit, so I wasn’t surprised that it came in a bird dog’s mouth. It made a big impression on Momma, however. After that day, whenever she wanted to remind us God loved us, she’d say, “Remember the rabbit prayer.” Momma told the story to my own children to teach them just what faith can do.

But when Momma died, my rabbit prayer faith seemed to die with her. She and Daddy were just starting to enjoy retirement. I felt like God had betrayed me and I was angry. Too angry to pray about anything.

The day of Momma’s funeral the family gathered at her house. I sat in the corner, away from all the talk of heaven and the joy Momma must have found there among the angels. Joy I couldn’t share. My brother-in-law, David, a minister, arrived at the house. He’d gone by the cemetery to see if the grave was ready.

“It’s a very peaceful spot,” he assured us. “In fact, somebody’s already moved into it. Remind me to speak to the attendant before the funeral about the baby rabbit.”

“A what?” I said, the words cutting through my anger. “What do you mean? What rabbit? Where?”

“Down in the bottom of the grave at the cemetery.”

This I had to see. And sure enough, there he was. No bigger than the rabbit Buzzard laid at Momma’s feet all those years before. I gathered him up in my hands. Remember the rabbit prayer, I could hear Momma say.

I took the rabbit back with me to Momma’s house and held him for a long time, welcoming back that same faith I’d had in first grade, when God’s love was as real as Momma’s and miracles happened every day. 

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