I had only banana cream pie on my mind that evening.
A jar of peanut butter started it. When our bag of supplies came from friends that week, Abby and I had pulled out the prayed-for provision—Skippy’s smooth, all natural—and grinned at each other. “Time for pie.”
The rest of the week, we ferreted supplies— prison issued yogurt from lunch, a packet of honey, and finally, the long-awaited banana.
That night, Abby drew out a can of cocoa powder tucked under her bed. I pulled out my carefully guarded plastic knife. We giggled with anticipation.
As I peeled the spotted banana, letting its fragrance burst into the room, I heard shouts, running, and a Filipino woman at the door, breathless and urgent, “Do you have a Bible?”
I glanced up, perplexed.
“Someone fell down. A Sri Lankan. Come!” Without waiting for me, she disappeared down the hallway.
Abby had just pulled back the foil from her yogurt cup.
“We will just go and see?”
Whenever something unusual happened in prison, everyone gathered to gawk and gossip. A group had already collected around this woman, who lay in the middle of the hallway, eyes closed, her bare feet sticking out from the bottom of her dress. She did not look uncomfortable, her head pillowed by her thick long braid. Already, someone dangled a crucifix over her head, and Big Mama, the Nigerian fortune-teller and resident exorcist paced the tiles, booming out “in Jesus’ names” that exploded like fireworks.
“Do you have a Bible?” someone tugged at me.
“Yes…?”
But I didn’t move to do anything.
Finally, I noticed a cluster of Sri Lankan women beckoning me from the side. I had never conversed with them before.
“She sick. She fall down,” the soft-spoken friend explained in English with an apologetic smile. “She wants Christ-ian prayer.”
“She’s Christian?”
“La, la, Hindu. Every day, you Christ-ians sing, and she sits on her bed, like this--” The woman scrunched her shoulders and pushed her fists toward her face in a tight ball. “She shakes.”
Before she could say more, we heard the shouts of a guard rushing in, yelling at everyone to stop and to send the sick one to the nurse. We dispersed.
I returned to cutting my banana.
Abby tilted the honey packet over the yogurt container, watching as sticky golden liquid landed in neat circles on the creamy top.
The little group of Sri Lankans helped their friend hobble out the main door. We heard the slam of the metal shutting behind them.
Abby spread the peanut butter, and I stacked the thin rounds of banana, layering with yogurt. We drizzled our own version of chocolate sauce over the top. We had perfected our pie recipe over the months.
The door thudded open again and shuffling footsteps returned. The footsteps stopped in front of our door and three faces peered in at us.
“She says you need to pray for her.”
They nodded to each other and pointed straight at me.
I looked at Abby. She looked at me.
“Me?”
Feeling small and clueless, I followed the trio to their cell, sat down on the bed and—prayed. I didn’t understand what the woman wanted, didn’t know what was happening, and we didn’t speak the same language. I just held her hands in mine and did what I knew how to do: pray. I prayed the way I would have prayed if I were at home, if I woke up to an insistent child whispering, “Mommy, I had a nightmare,” a simple prayer.
That was all.
I opened my eyes. She opened hers. She didn’t seem to expect anything else.
I returned to pie.
The next morning, three Sri Lankans beamed at me. “She is no more sick. She sleep. No more sick.”
How little I know of power.
And perhaps, that is as it should be.
We, little children of a powerful God, enjoy his daily provisions and care, taking pleasure in sleep, in laughter, in food, in beauty—while unseen powers in heavenly places tremble.
Then, at unexpected moments, we catch a glimpse of a hidden Kingdom residing in obscure places, a reminder of our surprising proximity to power.
Can we even begin to fathom what happens when a child of the King prays just one small prayer?
Our voices matter to Him. He hears and He cares.
He cares about the child awakened by a nightmare. He cares about a woman who cannot sleep at night. He cares about elections and presidents and nations.
And—I think he cares about pie too.