The power of prayer (#253).

In a small, wind-swept village nestled in the hills of northern Sierra Leone, drought had gripped the land for nearly two years.

The once lush fields had turned to dust, and the rivers were reduced to faint trails of cracked mud.

And hope had begun to vanish like the morning mist.

Among the villagers lived Ya-Aminata, a widowed mother of three, known for her quiet strength and unwavering faith.

While others cursed the sky and planned their escape to distant cities, Mama Ya-Aminata remained.

Every morning at dawn.

She would climb the rocky hill behind the village, kneel down and pray under the tree.

Her children often asked, “Mama, what do you pray for when nothing changes?”

She would smile gently. “I do not pray for rain only.

I pray for strength, for peace in our hearts, and that when the rain does come.

We still have the faith to believe it is God who sends it.”

Many laughed at her, some pitied her, others warned her that faith could not fill a stomach.

But Mama Ya-Aminata never missed a single morning.

Then came the day her youngest, Ansumana, collapsed from hunger and fever.

The local clinic was bare, and the road to the city hospital had been washed out by a rare but cruel storm weeks earlier.

The village doctor shook his head, “He needs medicine we do not have,” he said softly.

That night, as Ansumana lay unconscious, Mama Ya-Aminata climbed the hill once more.

She fell to her knees, her voice hoarse from tears and dust.

“Lord,” she cried, “if my son is to be taken, let it be with Your mercy.

But if there is still a path through this darkness, show me, I have only prayer left.”

She remained through the night, eyes closed, heart open.

Just before dawn, a truck rumbled into the village.

It was a convoy from a distant mission group, rerouted due to a GPS error.

They carried food, clean water, and emergency medical supplies.

The doctor wept when he saw the medicine, exactly what Ansumana needed.

By week’s end, the boy’s fever broke.

The clouds gathered.

The rains came, gentle and steady, soaking the thirsty earth.

The river returned.

The fields were stirred with green.

Some called it a coincidence, others called it luck.

But Mama Ya-Aminata knew.

She did not preach or boast.

She simply returned to the hill under the tree the next morning and prayed.

Because sometimes, prayer does not change the world in an instant.

But it changes the heart enough to keep believing until the world changes.

Keep believing in God.

God might be slow to bless you, but it will surely come your turn.

His ways and our ways are not the same; be consistent always.

Thank you for reading.

Have a blessed week.