A family faith story should be shared

My favorite daily devotional is called “Mornings with Jesus” by Guideposts. Recently, the devotion’s Scripture verse was from Matthew 18:20 (NKJV): “For where two or three are gathered together in my name, I am there in the midst of them.”

The author shared a family faith story about a summer picnic that happened in 1916. She wrote, “Friends and family rode in horse-drawn carriages to a favorite spot in the woods.” A near-tragedy happened as the adults were setting up the picnic and children were playing. Her Great-Aunt Treva, who was only 5 years old, went to pet a horse, but it reacted by opening its mouth and clamping it on her little face.

There was a doctor in the crowd who did his best to help while her parents held her still for many stitches. Her young brothers cried. The next sentence reads, “All the people formed a circle around Treva, grasped hands and cried out to Jesus for a miracle.”

Their prayers were answered. Treva survived and lived for 91 years. The author felt blessed to have stories of faithfulness and answered prayers handed down in her family. At the bottom of the page under “Faith Step,” she encouraged the reader to think of a faith story when two or more gathered together to pray and share it with someone in a younger generation.

That made me realize my Scott family in Maine has two stories of miracles that happened when members gathered for urgent prayer. My dad Hubert Glenn Scott was the subject of the prayers. The first time was the day he was born, Nov. 18, 1918. He was born at home on Letter B Road in Houlton, Maine in Aroostook County. The only thing I know is he was born a “blue baby” and that he was saved by prayer.

Years later Mum told me back then pregnant women did not know that much about proper nutrition, and his mother, my Grammie Scott, ate a lot of gruel, whatever that was. You'd think she would know about proper diet for pregnant women since Daddy was the last of eight children, but knowing about it and being able to eat nutritious meals were two different things back then.

The faith story I never told our children happened in 1959 during my junior year of high school. Daddy was terribly sick for months, going to our local hospital, then finally getting the correct diagnosis at the VA Hospital at Togus. He had diverticulitis. In the space of five months, he had three major operations. My memory is sketchy, but I know he had a colostomy and then later had it removed.

When he was about to have his final surgery and in a weakened condition, we gathered at our house to pray. I remember there was my Grammie Scott, Mum and I think our Aunt Lillian, who was married to Daddy’s brother Arnold. Then there were us three kids. We got down on our knees in the living room, leaning on the couch or chairs to pray for Daddy.

Mum told us later there was another man preparing for the same surgery, who told Daddy that at times like this, it wouldn’t hurt and maybe help to swear a little, which is something Daddy would never think of doing. To shorten the story, Mum told us this man, who seemed pretty healthy, did not make it through his surgery. Daddy did and lived for more than 30 years afterward.

This is the kind of faith story that should be shared with my immediate and extended family. Maybe you have a story similar to this you’ve never shared with your family. Maybe now’s the time to join me in telling how your family gathered in earnest prayer for a member.