@TomZubaPRAYER
About 12 hours before my wife Trici died following the procedure the docs hoped would change the course of events and save her life (it didn’t work) the doctor told me to “Pray for a miracle, Tom, and get everyone you know to pray, too. The only thing that will save your wife is a full-on miracle.”
Understanding the urgency of that message I sat down and wrote a list of family and friends I considered good “pray-ers.” I divided the list and asked that each person be called and told how urgent it was that they start praying.
Now.
Confident that the prayer-army was being enlisted I found a quiet space for myself
and went deep
and honest
and real.
What prayer?
Knowing that when I’d prayed
and begged
and pleaded
and promised
that God save my 18-month-old first born child
my daughter Erin
nine short/long years earlier
she died anyway.
What prayer do I pray
now
as my wife lay dying?
What prayer?
The only prayer that rang true
at this point in my journey
was the age-old prayer
“Thy Will Be Done.”
I raised my hands upward
looked to the sky
(it was 1999 and a part of me still believed that God was “up there in heaven")
and with every cell of my body
surrendered
completely
with the words
“Thy Will Be Done.”
Thy Will Be Done.
Thy Will Be Done.
And in doing so
knew
felt
that I was handing my most beloved wife and friend
Patricia Brennan Zuba
over to God.
Who had always
always
always
been holding her gently in the palm of his hand
a truth I had forgotten
many times and then some.
My wife died the next day.
New Year’s Day 1999.
But the prayer was so different
six years later
as my 13-year-old son Rory
lie in a similar hospital bed
with terminal brain cancer
hooked up to a similar ventilator
traveling a similar path
with only one destination.
“You can’t take him, God!”
“Not this one
not now
not ever.
Leave us alone.”
I wailed
I thrashed
I cried
and I screamed out.
I foamed at the mouth.
I clenched my fists.
I cursed the darkness
and I cursed this God
that I thought was snatching my child from my very heart.
The child that I had grown to love more than my own life.
The child I had raised beautifully
since his mom died when he was 7.
The child who was born to set the world on fire with his magnificence.
“You can’t take him God!
Not this one.”
Of course, Rory died anyway.
As I knew he would
when I gave my sister-in-law permission to remove the vent tube
as she had done before
as Trici lie dying six years earlier.
Like many of you,
I have been
so
so
so
so
so
very angry
at God
at life
and at love.
At times I’ve felt paralyzed
unable to move forward
unable to go back.
Stuck
drowning
suffocating
burning
in anger.
Rage
really.
It’s a place I have lived for
days
weeks
months
and even years
at a time.
But now that I know there’s a way out
I choose not to spend too much time there.
Not anymore.
It’s just too painful.
I’ve chosen to believe that prayer can’t change the perfect mind of God. But prayer can certainly change me. And it has. Many, many times.
💛💛💛
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