101 Inspirational Stories of the Power of Prayer. Edited by Sr Patricia Proctor. Distributed by Redemptorist Publications. £8.95

Prayer is at once the simplest thing in the world and the most difficult. There is the Cure of Ars’ anecdote of one of his parishioners at prayer: “I look at Him and He looks at me.” And then there are innumerable books on how to pray, testifying to people’s difficulties in communicating with the Almighty. This book of true stories is a record of human helplessness and panic in the face of anguish, the ensuing cry for help – and the amazingly swift response from God. Atheists will sniff at such stories and say “It’s all in the mind.” Read this book and be certain they are wrong.

A project of the Poor Clare Sisters of Spokane, most of the stories come from America. For English readers this might convey a slightly corny – as in the waving cornfields of the mid-West – flavour, but do not be deterred. They are heart-warming and, as the title suggests, a stimulus to pray with the same trust and urgency. Some contributors pray to a favourite saint; Mother Teresa and St Anthony of Padua (the miracle-worker) crop up often. There is also the intervention of a guardian angel – those neglected and undervalued constant presences in our lives. I once had a car sticker which said, “Never drive faster than your guardian angel can fly”; my friends will bear witness (ahem) to my caution at the wheel. There is also advice from a priest to pray to the Holy Spirit – the forgotten Person of the Trinity.

As one contributor writes, there are four ways in which God answers prayer: “No, not yet; No, I love you too much; Yes, I thought you’d never ask; and Yes – and here’s more”. The book includes photos of some of the prayer corners of the writers; in central position is a comfortable arm chair, with not a prie-dieu in sight, indicating we are not meant to develop calloused knees during prayer. A constant theme is prayer on behalf of a loved-one’s addiction – usually drugs, alcohol or pornography. One writes, “God never did fix my husband...but he has been changing me; I got my miracle.”

There are seemingly mundane requests, such as for oil to heat a house in winter; the response shows that nothing is mundane to God. There are also many heartfelt prayers for lapsed children. One contributor suggests entrusting them to the Immaculate Heart of Mary while praying the rosary; another mentions Mother Teresa’s “Express Novena”: this simply means saying the Memorare nine times in a row, rather than the more elaborate novenas that are popular. Finally, we must remember that God always gives the strength to bear what He chooses not to change; as well as trust, perseverance and gratitude the writers add, “Thy will be done.”

A Grace Given. By Kent Gilges. Cider Press Publishing. Distributed by St Philip’s Book, Oxford. £13.95.

Kent Gilges’ oldest daughter, Elizabeth, was born in 1993. She seemed to be developing well, but then developed a tumour on the brain. At 8 months she underwent major surgery to remove it. During this process she suffered a stroke; from then until her death in 2004, she was never able to walk, talk, feed herself or even smile. In this poignant memoir her father pays tribute to a “tiny, insignificant, monumental life.”

Gilges’ wife, Liz, is a woman of strong faith. He is not. A graduate of Cornell and Oxford, he was not prepared for the shock of his daughter’s condition and his book describes his struggle, shared by all who do not have religious belief, to understand the point of her short, often suffering, life. Elie (as she was known) was never able to lead anything remotely approaching a ‘normal’ life. Everything had to be done for her; she required 24-hour care. At first Liz Gilges attempted to do this on her own with family support; later, as she and her husband became aware of the extent of their daughter’s disability, they were helped by a team of devoted nurses, so that Elie could live – and eventually die – at home, surrounded by loving care.

Her father, who does not tell us in the book if he came eventually to share his wife’s faith, nonetheless is open to the painful “mystery” of this misfortune: he does not ask “Why us?” and accepts – though he cannot understand it – that “there is a blessing sent from God in every burden of sorrow.” If this sounds like religious language, it reflects what one of the paediatric neurosurgeons told them: “There are no atheists in the paediatric neurosurgery waiting room”. In the extremities of sorrow, the human spirit is forced into language and categories beyond itself.

Ironically, the Gilges had accepted that their daughter would die of an inoperable tumour and were at peace with this decision, when they heard of a surgeon who performed seemingly miracle operations. The hope this gave them was short-lived. He agreed to operate and it appeared a success – until post-operative trauma made their daughter both more incapacitated than formerly – yet also prolonged her life. From then on, until her death 10 years after, a feeding pump was Elie’s constant companion. A pilgrimage to Lourdes, where they were unable to recharge the battery of the pump, meant that the Gilges had to feed her from a syringe, 1 millilitre per minute, 24 hours a day. They were exhausted; meeting other parents over the years in hospital wards and waiting rooms Gilges notes that they “all show in their faces that they are collateral damage” in the war to sustain their children’s lives.

Yet Gilges also observes how Elie, by her very helplessness, attracted help from others; her spiritual family grew ever wider as she touched the lives of strangers; without being aware of it she brought out the magnanimous, tender and heroic features of human nature in those around her. This, her father slowly comes to realise, is the “meaning” of her life. It does not, however, shield the family from pain; what hope they had clung to was swiftly demolished by a doctor who told them bluntly that “major parts” of their daughter’s brain were gone, adding that she would always remain in a persistent vegetative state.

Such a notion is roundly rejected by the author; Elie was not a “vegetable”; she was a person, alive and in some indefinable way, aware: “She does communicate. We know it and the nurses know it”, even if only through a slight sigh. And thus what might have seemed a burden was transformed into a gift. Her family and carers helped her physically; and Elie, by bringing out their self-sacrificing qualities, “touched us spiritually.” Indeed, as their worst fears about her disabilities were realised, her parents never wavered in their belief that the gift of life is “profound and worthy of reverence.”

In all the current debates about the “worth” (or not) of human life, when illness or old age make it seem unproductive and useless, this text – and similar testimonies - should have a foremost place. For those privileged to know her, Elie led a life rich in significance – and who is to gainsay this?

© 2009 Francis Phillips

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