I want to be a prayer. Someone who actively prays. I collect stories of answered prayers like some people collect Santas, or shells from the beach.

One story I read was about a baby who was not expected to live. Jeffrey Sanderson was premature and there were complications. The doctors told his mother to prepare for the worst but she was adamant. 

"My son will live!" she announced defiantly. 

She and her family prayed. Earnestly. Jeffrey made it to the end of the week, but still the doctors shook their heads. His mother called in more friends to pray, stretching the circle to friends of friends. After another tenuous stretch he came home. Things were not easy, and he missed the expected milestones. But his mother continued to pray and to believe. Eventually Jeffrey went to preschool. Elementary school. High school and college. Medical school. 

One day Jeffrey was a resident in the ER when an elderly man was admitted. He had taken too many pills, having lost any reasons to live. Jeffrey bent over him, assessing the damage. Then the man looked up. He saw the doctor's name tag. 

"Jeffrey Sanderson?' he seemed surprised. 

"Yes," he said, distracted.

"Were you not expected to live? As a baby?" The old man suddenly lifted out of lethargy. 

"Uh, that's right," the doctor was caught off guard. 

"I prayed for you. A long time. Even after they said you were fine I kept it up. For years. Here you are, a doctor." The corners of his wrinkled mouth turned up just a little. "That means my prayers mattered." 

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 Sometimes we find out that our petitions were granted. Other times we are left to wonder. 

Maybe that is as it should be.