I prayed for my dad to come to faith for two years straight. Every single day. I prayed on the way to class, in the shower, before meals, in the margins of my notes during lectures. I told God I'd do anything. I bargained. I begged. I got angry. There were stretches where I stopped praying because it felt like screaming into a void. My Lead with Light small group prayed with me, checked in with me, and never once told me to give up or that maybe I just needed to accept it. Last Thanksgiving my dad asked if he could come to church with me over the break. I nearly fell out of my chair. He gave his life to Christ on a Sunday morning in December in a small church in Waco, Texas, sitting next to me in a pew that creaked every time either of us moved. I have no theological explanation for why it took two years and not twenty or two months. I just know that it happened, and that I was still praying when it did. Don't stop. I know that's easy to say. But don't stop.
