I don’t use numbers to count the years I’ve attended Priority. I do the counting more by memories of traveling to Springfield to worship with a crowd of women and lessons taught by gifted and inspirational speakers.
And I always come away knowing what my next step needs to be. The Holy Spirit overwhelms me every year with new hope and promise—or maybe courage. I always need more of that.
The next step for me at last year’s conference came in the Friday night session. The Holy Spirit urged me to go forward where other women were already praying. The room was dimly lit, and it was crowded at the foot of the stage—women with their heads bowed, confessing, committing, pleading, and thanking. Women talked to Jesus in groups of two, three and more.
My plan was to pray alone, keeping my business between me and Jesus. Then, I had trouble starting a prayer. It was too crowded to kneel. Other women were already in groups. I prepared to turn and go back to my place in the audience. That’s when I noticed an empty seat, right behind me on the front row.
I sat next to a stranger. “Would you pray with me?”
She took my hand. “Sure.”
“My daughter has walked away,” I said, “from her faith, our family and anything that resembles church. It’s been almost seven years, and I am broken. She’s threatened horrible things if I even attempt to contact my grandkids. I haven’t stopped praying, and I won’t, but I’m sick, and the pain doesn’t go away. Would you pray with me?”
I knew God had opened this particular seat for me before she finished praying. I might have hugged her anyway, but then I opened my eyes in that dimly lit room and saw her nametag. “Paula.”
“My daughter’s name is Paula.” I said, and then I really hugged her neck.
My next step after getting home last year was to message Paula and thank her for that prayer. I did.
“I’ll keep praying,” she said. “It will be easy to remember your daughter’s name.”
A year has passed, and more prodigals than I thought possible have been added to my prayer list. I know these people. It’s an epidemic—an often silent, but painful worm that eats from the core of our churches.
Returning to the conference in April, I didn’t recognized my prayer partner from last year’s Priority. We’d only spoken in person that one time when the room was dark and tears clouded my vision, but she approached me this time. New nametag, same Paula. She remembered me and my Paula. We are still on her prayer list.
– Rita Klundt is a member of Liberty Baptist Church, Pekin