It was cancer, they said.
Didn't have long to live, they said.
So we began praying for George (not his real name) from my wife's side of the family. George, age 59, had lived his entire life apart from God. Some drinks. Some divorces. He was irreligious, irreverent and fully cognizant he was in his last weeks of life.
A family member suggested my wife send him a Christmas card. So she found one that presented the essence of the salvation message, and included our little family newsletter, which also pointed to Christ.
At night—every night—Diana and I prayed urgently for George, that he would have his eyes opened, spiritually, and that he would receive Christ in his last days. It would be a lie to say that I had great faith. Some faith, sure, but not the kind of faith I should have.
When the call came that George had died, along with it came details for the funeral. A two hour drive into rural Illinois brought us to the funeral home, where a minister made the claim that George was in heaven (“Liberal pastor for sure!” I grumbled to myself, oddly comfortable with my cynicism).
Yet the pastor went on to relate how he had visited George in his home, clearly explained the gospel message, and that both George AND his wife boldly stated their desire to receive Christ. They prayed together!
Here was a man dangled close enough over Hell, his feet could have smelled of brimstone. And yet….and yet….God snatched him away. His mercy and goodness and kindness and gentle call pursued this man to the literal midnight hour.
I am dumbfounded.
Forgive my lack of faith, Lord.
Me–who claims to believe–forgive my unbelief.
Amazing grace.
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like George…
…And me.