For over 20 years, I had prayed for Joe, my stubborn, beer drinking, pool shooting father to become a follower of Jesus Christ. My mother had prayed for 30-plus years of marriage for the man she dearly loved who had no time for God and little time for her or me. At times Dad’s belligerence toward the things of God grew so hostile, his salvation seemed an impossible dream. Yet, our Christian family and friends prayed and waited.
Then around 1980, God’s “still, small voice” impressed upon me to fast and pray every Saturday for my father.
“Fast? Me…fast?” I asked. “For how long?”
“You’ll know when to stop,” the answer came.