I believe in holding hands. I’m not talking about holding hands with the people you like, or maybe even love. I’m not talking about the type of holding hands you do in your relationships. Nor am I talking about the tingling rush you feel when you are holding the hand of your silly crush, and yes, there are different types of holding hands. I am, however, talking about the hands that are held together through prayer. I’m talking about a group of people praying over you and holding your hands when you need them to the most. I am full of pride to be part of a church that prays. I am part of a church that knows the power of prayer, and for that, I am so incredibly grateful. I believe that praying is the best thing you can do for a person during their tough times and in their healthy times, and in my situation it was practically all I could do.

It was February of 2015 it seemed like a reasonable enough time. My brother and my dad were mowing the lawns of our friends and family something my dad took my brother to do often so that he would have some money to spend on the things he liked. He was 15; not old enough for a real job, but old enough for the legitimate need for money. My brother was acting lethargic, and he complained about lifting the weed-eater. My father was quick to get irritated with him, for laziness is not tolerated at our house. After my dad wrestled with my brother for a while, my brother filled us in on some information. We didn’t know because my brothers not one to tell news or complain at all, but my brother had been taking frequent visits to the trainers, claiming that his back had been hurting. Right away my parents started to get worried. My brother says very few words in general, much less complain. He is an exceptional worker, and motivated and patient in everything he does. My parents took him in for an x-ray, and Dr. White knew almost instantly something was not right. It seemed like all he did was run his hands across his lower back, but I knew he was doing what he was trained to do. A few days later we figured out Clayton had a herniated back disk in between his L4 and L5, which is your lower back, on or right by the spinal cord. My brother later explained to us it was "max lift" day when he first felt that something was wrong. It was "max lift" day and he was determined to “outlift” all of his friends. He did “outlift” them, but he didn’t know that it would be his last time to lift, and he certainly didn’t know for the next year and a half he wouldn’t even be allowed to raise a gallon of milk. Seventeen doctors later we concluded that Clayton would need surgery. By now we had visited several doctors and plenty of hospitals. They all said the same thing, one even going as far as to say that what he had done was equivalent to hammering a crowbar into his back. We tried everything before surgery: shots, therapy, water therapy, and lots of at home stretches. Clayton hated all these things: the pills did not help, the therapy was a waste of time, and the shots left him screaming so loud my father, the person who is supposed to protect and comfort us, had to leave the room. No one blamed him though if you had seen the overwhelmingly, large needle and heard the high-pitched scream, I guarantee you, you would have left the room too. Right behind him left Carson, my younger brother. I looked out of small, lined window, through the strong, thick, grey door, I saw my dad and my brother snuggled up on the uncomfortable, waiting room chairs holding hands. Both of them had blank stares on their faces, and neither of them were saying a word; yet they stayed calm there together tears shimmering down both of their faces. There were pleasant days and there were some horrible days. Days that left us all huddled up in a room crying and days that gave us plenty of hope. I remember the week as if it were yesterday. It had been a year since we had figured out that Clayton had broken his back. It was March 2016, and Clayton was going to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. It was a Sunday at the 10:45 service. It was an unusually crowded service. I can’t remember what brother Ronnie was talking about, but that was partly because I was not paying attention. My mind was somewhere else, drifting off imagining the week to come. I wondered and worried about what was ahead of me. That Tuesday Clayton would be looked at by some of the finest doctors in the world, and that Friday he would have his surgery; although, I did not know that at the time.  At the end of the service, Brother Ronnie called my family and me up to the altar, so that he could pray over us. The church gathered around Clayton, and we all held hands.
I’ve never been in a more peaceful moment: it was still and quiet, and it felt like everything was going to be okay. Yet there was still anxiety and tension filling my body as my little, happy self started to realize the seriousness of what was going on. I began to feel myself tear up and a warm lump formed in my throat. I was relieved to find I wasn't the only one in tears, I looked up and noticed my mom, her cheeks damp with streaks of tears, her face a shade of pale pink. Yet in the midst of my tears, I felt safe. I can’t explain the feeling, but right then I realized that God was going to be with Clayton. There was so much beauty in such a scary moment. I, once again, was not listening to the prayer. I was taking in the moment. I was realizing that I am loved by all the people around me, I was realizing that there is a church family around me, and I was realizing that no matter what I would have people looking out for me. You see I, my 12-year-old self, realized the importance of this event, it wasn't just a prayer, it was a movement. Clayton breaking his back taught me many lessons about pride, courage, faith, myself, and my daily walk with the Lord. However; the lesson that I continually get reminded of is prayer changes things. That Wednesday I got a call from my mom. I didn’t have a phone at the time, so she called my best friend Kelsey every day, while we were on the bus. She explained to me that Clayton would need surgery and that the doctors said he should have been taken there sooner. The news shocked me, I felt it all throughout my body like an earthquake.  It didn't make sense to me, how could this be feasible? Mayo Clinic is one of the most profound and busiest hospitals in the United States, and it was no doubt a miracle that someone had passed and caused an open spot that Friday. Not saying that the passing was a good thing, but it showed that God was looking out for us. My brother had his surgery in the empty spot. God answered my church’s prayers. If my church hadn’t prayed over my family and I would’ve never learned the power of prayer, and how important it is to pray. The surgery was supposed to be 30 minutes to an hour, but when the doctors cut open Clayton's back they found so much unexpected arthritis, that the surgery took 4 hours. It was tremendously hard waiting on the news from back home. Would it go okay? Why is it taking so long? Is everything alright? Were the thoughts running through my head, but I decided not to ask my mom or dad. Because I sense they were just as clueless and nervous as I. I held back the urge to call my mom, and I waited on her to call me. When I finally heard the phone ring I was relieved, and I let go of lots of stress. I couldn’t talk to my brother because he was still asleep. Mom told me the news, the surgery went alright, as good as it could I guess, but the doctors informed us that his back would never be normal again and he would have to revisit surgery in his twenties. Even with that devastating news, we were grateful. God was with us, and we are going to take it one day at a time. Through the phone I could see my mom rubbing my brother’s hand as he lay there asleep. He had been through so much pain and hurt, yet he was so peaceful.

Prayer is a gift. A gift that was given to me so that I can talk to God. Prayer is defined as “a solemn request for help or expression of thanks addressed to God or an object of worship,” yet to me it is much more than that it is me expressing reverence to my God whom I know is always there. Prayer helps me get through the bad days and helps me rejoice in the good ones. Every day I thank God for my brother and all that he has taught me through him. My pastor always says “prayer is the greatest thing to do for someone,” and now I know he’s unquestionably right. During my valleys I will always look back to that moment when I was hand in hand with my church and my family, feeling a little bit more powerful than I really was. But hey, God says faith as small as a mustard seed can move mountains.