He lay shrouded in a deathlike state — his breath, dead air; and his mind lost in a web of unconsciousness. Entombed by monitors and wires, Ken breathed mechanically: first the clicking sound, followed by a rasping, machinelike gasp.

Without a ventilator, he would die. A man without faith in God was being sucked into another world from which he could not return. I touched his pasty hand. Dark blue veins protruded like a three-dimensional road map. Struggling with my own personal emptiness, I offered a prayer, which came from my lips but was spoken from beyond my spirit. The words challenged death and called forth life. I would not own the prayer. I had no right to offer false hope.

His doctor waited silently in the doorway. Following my prayer, Ken's vital signs dipped dangerously but were still not flat-lined. The nurse pulled the plug and rolled Ken away to die naturally. Obviously the prayer had little effect on Ken's condition. He would soon meet his Maker.

An hour earlier Ken's son, Steve, had anxiously telephoned the parsonage. Distraught, he pleaded with me to visit his dad. A massive heart attack had left him with irreparable damage. Steve was not a believer, and I had never met his dad before.

Duty forced me back into the role of pastor. Out of obligation I drove to the hospital that day, but inside I was broken. My faith in justice had crumbled at my feet. Earlier that morning my wife and I had walked out of the halls of justice completely defeated.
A neighbor obsessed with his hatred toward God had targeted our family. His menacing threats had turned into systematic acts of violence. His violence had grown to demonic proportions when death threats had turned to attempted homicide. Finally arrested and tried in court, he had walked out of the courtroom a free man. That morning the legal system had brought no defense for our cause.

There is no justice, my heart cried out. Where is God? I was drowning in a sea of despair. If my faith waned in trusting God for a miracle for our family, how then could my faith be effective to believe for another's miraculous healing?

Earlier, when I had driven recklessly across town toward the hospital, I had spoken to God. My prayer felt distant and bitter: "Lord, you know I have nothing to offer this person. I'm a defeated man. I'm barren. I'm going only because it's my pastoral duty. If You want to do anything for this man, do it Yourself." God had made no reply. I was certain He did not like my tone of voice, so I had walked alone into the hospital and stood beside death.

After I had prayed for Ken's healing, I left his bedside consumed with personal failure. Is my faith impotent? Does my personal loss deprive me of believing for others? Is ministry allowed only for the servants who have been blessed with daily successes?

I promised Ken's son that I would visit the hospital again the next day. Meanwhile, the personal weight of loss and disappointment left my family and me open to fear and defeat. The following morning, I dressed and drove to the hospital with an emptiness that threatened to overtake my whole sense of being.

As I entered the hospital ward, there was a pervasive antiseptic smell, mingled with the remains of institutional breakfast. I briefly scanned the patients' faces. Recognizing no one who looked remotely like Ken, I turned away. My thoughts reeled.

I expected as much. He probably died within minutes of my leaving. I'll need to contact the family. I should never have offered such a prayer of hope.

Ken's doctor leaned beside the nurses' station. His eyes watched my every movement. Refusing to make eye contact, I lowered my head in discomfort and headed toward the door.

"Excuse me, Pastor. I'm Dr. Hutchinson, Kenneth Brock's doctor."

I stopped dead.

"I saw you here yesterday in the ICU praying with Ken."

"Yes. Has his family been notified yet?"

"Absolutely. They're ecstatic."

"About what?" I felt foolish asking the question. The doctor smiled.

"Obviously you haven't heard. Ken is in the bed right in front of you. Perhaps you don't recognize him. He does look considerably more alive today than yesterday. Come with me."

A smiling man sat up in bed looking unusually healthy. He had just finished a hot breakfast and was reading the morning paper. I stood shyly beside him and introduced myself. The surgeon moved to Ken's side.

"Ken, this is the pastor who prayed for you yesterday." Ken smiled broadly and reached out to shake my hand. His complexion was full of color and his body relaxed. His eyes glistened with gratitude.

The doctor gave his professional opinion: "Medically speaking, you should not be alive today. The ventilator was our last hope. You're alive because of a miracle through this man's prayer."

The word "miracle" warmed my wavering heart. In my utmost weakness, God had come through in power and worked an unexpected miracle. As I pondered this incredible phenomenon, the words of Paul crashed into my consciousness: "But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong" (2 Corinthians 12:9-10).

Driving home, I pondered the mystery of Paul's words in light of the day's breathtaking miracle. Somewhere between my extreme human frailty and God's overwhelming compassion, a rift was opened for His power to disrupt natural laws, and raise Ken to life.

I had always struggled with Paul's wording. Why boast about our weaknesses? Mine are blatant enough without boasting. I flushed as I realized the doctor's awareness of my obviously inadequate faith. I hadn't expected Ken to live. The doctor understood the power of prayer.

I recalled Paul's words concerning Abraham's faith in relation to his human limitations. Abraham recognized that his body was "as good as dead," and Sarah's too (Hebrews 11:12). So they responded with a laugh. God's answer: "Nothing is too hard for Me."
In my self-doubt God had challenged me to consider who was really in control. I could hear Him say, "Go ahead, take control. You be the healer. Pastor all you want in your own strength. You be the lord of your life. When you are able to raise a man from the dead, let Me know. Then we'll talk. But you will never know My power in your life until you let go." God was prying my fingers loose from the steering wheel.
I thought about Paul, the Christian-slayer who had to be brought down before he would surrender to Christ's lordship. Full surrender was the key to power: "I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me" (Galatians 2:20a). In this life of death to self, Paul discovered a freedom to minister without the anxieties of experiencing personal loss or the need to impress others, winning their favor or receiving praises — for he had died. Paul was equipped to be ready to face death, to accept illness as a way of life, to be content with little or much so that God's power would be manifest.

Ken's "resurrection" brought his own son, Steve, to life in Christ. God gave Ken 10 extra years during which he also accepted Christ as Savior. Near the end, before Ken passed into his Father's presence, Dr. Hutchinson spoke to him one last time about eternal matters. "Remember, Ken, it was God alone who gave you 10 extra years so that you might know Him and enjoy Him forever."