I was seeing him after many years and for a moment I wondered if it was the same person. Time and illness had changed him. Years ago, when I had done some advertising work for his company, he was the head of the organisation. Confident and sharp-minded. When he entered a room, people straightened their backs. His voice carried authority, not because it was loud, but because it was sure. He was respected, listened to, and quietly admired. Now he was frail. Parkinson’s had taken its toll.
His movements were slow. His hands trembled. His body was bent and seemed to fight a constant invisible battle just to remain upright. The disease had stripped away the physical markers of power that the world so often worships: strength, control, certainty. All gone.
And then the worship began. As the hymns filled the hall, I noticed him lift his hands. Not easily. Not smoothly. They trembled as they rose, shaking in the air like fragile leaves in a breeze. Yet they were lifted. Deliberately. Purposefully. In praise. I watched closely. There was no bitterness on his face. No visible anger at the injustice of it all. No complaint. No pleading. Just worship. Just surrender. Just praise.
Something tightened in my throat. I found myself whispering a prayer without thinking. Oh Lord, give me such faith. Not the kind of faith that praises when life is comfortable. Not the faith that sings loudly when health is good, income is steady, and plans are falling neatly into place. But the faith that lifts trembling hands. The faith that worships when the body fails. The faith that chooses gratitude when circumstances offer every excuse for despair.
In that moment, I realised something uncomfortable. Many of us, myself included, measure faith by success. We applaud testimonies of healing, promotions, breakthroughs, miracles that restore what was lost. We clap when the story ends well. But here was a testimony without a happy worldly ending. No dramatic recovery. No reversal of disease. Just a man who had decided that his God was worthy of praise, regardless. And that, I realised, was far more powerful.
In his earlier years, when he was strong and respected, he had been a good witness. People admired him. They listened to him. They followed him. But watching him now, weak and shaking, praising God without complaint, was a testimony that cut far deeper. It spoke without words. It asked uncomfortable questions of everyone watching.
What is faith really for? Is it a tool to get what we want? Or an anchor that holds us when nothing changes. We pray for healing, and rightly so. We pray for relief, for answers, for doors to open. But perhaps the deeper prayer is this. Lord, if nothing changes, if the pain remains, if the outcome is not what I hoped for, I will still worship You. That day, I learned that faith is not proven in victory alone. It is revealed most clearly in suffering. In quiet praise. In trembling hands lifted heavenward. I left with one prayer echoing in my heart. Lord, give me such faith…!
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