There are moments in a minister's life that are forever etched upon the heart. They become reminders that God's power is never limited by our weakness. Looking back over fifty-eight years of ministry, I have often returned to one such memory from my days as a young missionary on the Wind River Indian Reservation in Fort Washakie, Wyoming.
I was serving among the Eastern Shoshone and Northern Arapaho people when the Lord placed an elderly man in my life named Tom Wesaw. Tom was the leader of the American Indian church, and his son, Delmar Wesaw, had founded the mission where I was serving.
I never called him Tom. To me, he was simply "Grandpa."
He was about the same age as my own Grandpa Truitt, and for reasons known only to the Lord, he adopted me as though I were one of his own sons. Wherever he wanted to go, I drove him. Wherever he wanted to visit, I accompanied him. He introduced me to people by saying, "This is my son."
One day he presented me with one of his most treasured possessions—the armbands he had worn at his first Sun Dance. To an outsider they might have seemed like simple pieces of metal bands to him they represented his past and his people. It was his way of telling me that he trusted me and had accepted me into his family.
As we spent countless hours together, Grandpa taught me much about the traditions of the American Indian people. He carefully explained the difference between the old Indian religion and the Christian faith.
He once warned me, "Never attend the Indian ceremonies. The spirits there are not the same Spirit that lives in you."
He spoke openly about the spiritual world he had known before. He said there were things those spirits could do and things they could not do. Even then, although he had not yet fully trusted Christ, he recognized there was a power greater than anything he had ever experienced.
Then came the day that changed my understanding of faith forever.
Grandpa came by the mission and said, "Get in the car. We're going to the hospital."
As we drove, he told me his grandson was dying. The doctors had given him only a few hours to live.
Then Grandpa looked at me and calmly said, "You're going to pray for him. You're going to anoint him, and he's going to live."
I nearly panicked.
I had never prayed over someone for healing.
I had never anointed anyone with oil.
I didn't even own any oil.
My heart was racing. I kept thinking, Lord, I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. What if I don't have enough faith?
The only example I had was my father. I had watched him pray for the sick. When he anointed someone, he poured the oil generously until it ran down over their head.
Before we reached the hospital, I pulled into the Safeway grocery store. They had only large bottles of olive oil. I bought one, feeling more than a little embarrassed. Imagine carrying a full-sized bottle of olive oil through a hospital while everyone looked at you wondering what in the world you were doing.
When we entered the room, many family members were gathered around the bed. The doctors had said there was no hope.
His grandson looked as though he had already slipped into eternity.
Without hesitation, Grandpa turned to the family and said, "Everyone leave the room."
When the door closed behind them, he looked at me and simply said,
"Now pray."
There I stood—a frightened young missionary holding a large bottle of olive oil and wondering what to say.
I opened the bottle.
To this day, I honestly cannot remember the words of my prayer.
I only remember pouring the oil over that young man's head until it ran down his face, just as I had seen my father do years before.
Then I said the only words I clearly remember:
"In the name of Jesus, receive healing. Amen."
That was it.
No thunder.
No lightning.
No dramatic feeling.
No voice from heaven.
As soon as I finished praying, Grandpa smiled and said,
"Let's go home. He'll be all right."
The next day his grandson walked out of the hospital.
I sat in amazement.
That experience taught me one of the greatest lessons of my ministry.
The miracle was not in my prayer.
The miracle was not in the olive oil.
The miracle was not because I possessed extraordinary faith.
The miracle was because God always remains faithful to His own Word.
The Scriptures declare,
"Is any sick among you? let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord:
And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up..." (James 5:14–15, KJV)
Notice carefully that James does not say the oil heals.
He does not say the preacher heals.
He says, "the Lord shall raise him up."
That day I learned another precious truth:
"God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise." (1 Corinthians 1:27, KJV)
God often works through people who know they are weak, uncertain, and completely dependent upon Him.
Grandpa's faith also left a lasting impression on me. Although he had not yet surrendered his life fully to Christ, he believed there was a power greater than every spirit he had ever known. He trusted that the name of Jesus was above every other name.
Years later, before Grandpa passed into eternity, he placed his faith in Jesus Christ.
I have often wondered if that day in the hospital helped prepare his heart for the Savior.
Only heaven will reveal all that God accomplished through that simple prayer.
As I look back over the many years, I smile when I remember that frightened young missionary carrying a quart-sized bottle of olive oil through the hospital.
I thought God needed someone stronger.
Someone wiser.
Someone with greater faith.
Instead, He reminded me of another promise that has carried me through fifty-eight years of ministry:
"Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths." (Proverbs 3:5–6, KJV)
The Lord was never looking for a perfect servant.
He was simply looking for a willing one.
And I have found Him faithful every step of the journey.
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