Praying for peace in a waiting room

I am sitting in the waiting room at the local dentist’s surgery, trying to fill in a long and complicated electronic form, which has been handed to me on an iPad by the receptionist.

I am here for my annual check up. There shouldn’t be any problems. However, in the year since my last visit, there’s been an upgrade in the surgery’s online records system, so I’ve been asked to provide my personal and medical details all over again.

I let out an involuntary sigh, bite my bottom lip and look up.

An elderly man, with twinkly eyes, has heard me from his vantage point in the row of soft-cushioned chairs opposite mine. He lowers the newspaper he’s reading, rests it in his lap and smiles.

“I feel your pain,” he says, with a knowing look. “I had to complete that form last week.”

I appreciate his empathy and ask him how he answered one of the form’s more tricky questions. He recalls his answer and, before I know it, we are chatting.

We have the waiting room to ourselves, so the conversation flows freely. I discover he’s here to have a filling. His name is Bill; his wife is Barbara. They have children and grandchildren, some who live locally, others far away.

“Most of my time is spent supporting my wife,” he confides. “She was recently diagnosed with breast cancer for the second time. We thought it had gone, but it’s returned. ”

I ask about her wellbeing and prognosis and, as he tells me which hospital is treating her, tears start to well up in his eyes. “I just hope she pulls through,” he says, “I can’t imagine life without her.” They have clearly been married many decades.

Even as he ‘s speaking, I feel a familiar surge of courage-and-compassion rising up within me, which I immediately recognise as a nudge from the Holy Spirit.

Taking a deep breath, I plunge straight in. “Has anyone prayed for you and Barbara?” I ask him.

Bill shakes his head and looks down at the carpet, which is a rather bland shade of navy blue. “I’m not a religious man,” he says, “I don’t go to church or anything like that.”

“You don’t have to be religious in order to pray, or for God to hear a prayer,” I assure him. “You also don’t need to go to church to receive prayer.” He continues to gaze at the carpet, so it’s hard for me to gauge how he’s responding.

Sending up arrow prayers as I’m speaking, I tell him what I’ve told so many. “I’m a Christian, Bill,” I say, “and I believe God can heal people when Christians pray in the name of Jesus.”

He immediately looks up, straightens his spine, puts his newspaper on the empty seat beside him, and gives me his full attention. “Go on,” he says.

“I’ve written a book of modern-day miracle stories,” I tell him, “and it includes two stories of God healing cancer, so I know he can do it.” I take another deep breath, and put the iPad to one side. “Would you like me to pray for you and Barbara?” I ask.

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t break eye contact. He just nods.

“Are you OK for me to pray here, now, out loud?” I ask. Again, he nods.

I explain what I’m about to do, and then I pray a simple prayer in the name of Jesus. My eyes are open and I’m looking straight at him. I ask God to heal Barbara, to take the cancer from her breast and body, to alleviate all the symptoms she’s experiencing – and to give a profound sense of peace to both of them.

I am aware of Bill’s eyes boring into me throughout. They haven’t lost their twinkle, but he’s clearly baffled.

He joins me in saying, “Amen”, and then we sit in a companionable silence.

Picking up his newspaper, he holds it aloft and pauses a moment. “Thanks for your prayer,” he says, “I can already feel a sense of peace.”

“That’s God giving you peace, Bill, not me,” I say, feeling more nervous than I sound. “He loves you and Barbara, and he wants the best for both of you. You can speak with him in prayer, whenever you like, in whatever way you like, and he will always hear you. Just call on the name of Jesus.” Then another thought occurs to me. “You can also ask one of the hospital chaplains to pray with you both, if you think that will help,” I add.

“I might just do that,” he says quietly.

I turn to pick up the iPad, to continue completing the form, and Bill starts reading his newspaper.

When the dental assistant appears in the doorway to call him for his appointment, he turns to me as he leaves the room. “Please keep praying for us,” he says.

***

When was the last time you sat in a waiting room? When will the next time be? It could be at the GP surgery, hospital, dentist, optician, hairdresser, school, garage or some other setting.

Rather than mindlessly flicking through a magazine or gazing into space, why don’t you take time to clock who else is waiting with you? What if God wants you to have a quick conversation with any of them? What if he wants you to offer to pray with them?

Imagine how much healing, hope and peace God could minister, through you, to reach other people like Bill and Barbara. All you have to do is ask for his guidance – and be alert and available.

As ever, constructive comments are welcome below.

Photo by Ceyda Çiftci via Unsplash