The Prayer Jar
By December 1979, my pre-apprenticeship classes had ended. I’d earned decent grades and felt a cautious sense of confidence, but the looming question of what’s next? weighed heavily on me. The uncertainty felt overwhelming, like standing at the edge of a vast canyon, knowing any step forward could ripple across my life in ways I couldn’t predict.
Where would I even start to find an apprenticeship? How would I know which path was right? These questions churned in my mind, relentless and unanswerable. The confidence I’d gained from my classes felt paper-thin, unable to shield me from the deeper doubts creeping in.
One Friday evening in January, I sat with friends at their kitchen table, discussing my next steps. Their laughter and chatter buzzed in the background, but my thoughts were elsewhere. When I asked for their ideas, they offered well-meaning but vague suggestions. None of it helped. Then, like a single spark in the dark, an idea struck: What if we asked God directly?
The words came out with surprising conviction. “Let’s ask Jesus,” I said, my voice steady. My friends glanced at me, unsure if I was serious. “I mean it,” I continued. “We’ll pray and ask Him to show me what to do—directly.” Skepticism flickered across their faces, but no one protested.
I grabbed a jar from the counter and a notepad. Tearing off five strips of paper, I wrote a single word on each: “North,” “South,” “East,” “West,” and “Stay.” These weren’t just directions; they represented possibilities. “Stay” reminded me that staying put could require as much faith as venturing out.
I folded the slips carefully and dropped them into the jar. My friends watched, their skepticism softening into curiosity. The ordinary jar on the table now felt like something sacred—a symbol of surrender. As we bowed our heads to pray, the room grew still. Our words were simple but heartfelt: “Lord, guide us. Show me the path You want me to take.”
The silence stretched after the prayer, charged with expectation. One of my friends cracked a joke to break the tension, and laughter rippled through the group. But I couldn’t join in. My eyes stayed fixed on the jar, its weight in this moment far beyond its glass and paper.
With trembling fingers, I reached in and pulled out a slip. The faint rustle of paper felt deafening in the quiet room. Slowly, I unfolded it, revealing a single word: North.
The room erupted with excitement. “North!” someone exclaimed. “You’re going on an adventure!” Their enthusiasm was contagious, but beneath the laughter, a quiet unease stirred in me. The word felt heavy in my hand, its promise colliding with the practical realities I hadn’t considered.
“I can’t go,” I admitted, cutting through the chatter. “I don’t have the money.” The words hung in the air, deflating the room’s energy. My friends grew quiet, the weight of my situation settling in.
Then, from the corner of the room, a quiet movement caught my eye. My friend’s brother, a man I barely knew, stepped forward. Without a word, he pulled out a wad of cash, counted out five $100 bills, and placed them on the table. “There,” he said firmly. “Now you can go.”
Shock rippled through me. “I… I can’t take this,” I stammered. But his steady gaze left no room for argument. “If you don’t take it,” he said, “I’ll give it to someone else.”
Humbled, I accepted the money. The laughter and excitement returned, but this time, I felt a quiet awe. The jar, the prayer, the word—it had all led to this moment of provision.
Following God’s Timing
My plan seemed foolproof: leave on Monday, visit every heavy equipment shop along the way, and hand out applications. The route was mapped out, the stops neatly organized. With the money I’d received, I could drive as far north as it allowed and still have enough to return. It was efficient and logical.
But something felt off. A quiet voice within me suggested leaving earlier—on Sunday. The idea made no sense. Shops would be closed, and leaving early seemed reckless. Yet, the Voice persisted, steady and insistent.
After wrestling with doubt, I gave in. Sunday afternoon, I packed my truck, said goodbye to my parents, and hit the road. As I drove north, the miles unfolded under a pale winter sky. The quiet hum of the engine and the rhythmic crunch of snow under the tires matched the stillness within me.
The highway was flanked by snow-dusted evergreens, their branches heavy with ice. The beauty of the landscape was stark, almost otherworldly. Yet, beneath the peace, uncertainty simmered. Was this the right decision?
Around 4:00 p.m., as the sun dipped low, a car ahead lost control, skidding sideways into my lane. Time seemed to slow. Without thinking, I swerved into the other lane, maintaining my speed and narrowly avoiding a collision. The moment passed as quickly as it had come, leaving me calm but shaken. It was as though unseen hands had steadied mine, guiding me through the danger.
By 8:00 p.m., I reached a small city shrouded in fog. Its familiar outline brought a fleeting sense of comfort, but the mist turned every turn into a mystery. I spotted a glowing sign for a motel and pulled in, taking it as a sign to stop for the night.
The room was simple—barely furnished and dimly lit—but its warmth was welcome. As I settled in, I prayed: “Thank You, Jesus, for bringing me here safely. Please guide me to the right job in the morning.”
The quiet of the room mirrored the stillness in my heart. I didn’t know what the next day would bring, but I felt peace. Trust didn’t require knowing the whole path, just the next step.