Bedtime, any night in 1957. My brother and I are on our knees next to Mom who is praying for the missionaries in a far-off country. Meanwhile, a few blocks away there is extreme poverty and people in need of help. Such is life on an open Native American Reservation in the 1950s. The lesson being taught was that prayer “counted” with God.
How faith evolves – a Midwesterner’s journey
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