Twelve miles down a winding dead-end road, where the hills roll like old hymns and the trees seem to lean in when you pray, we still do revival the old way.
You know the kind I mean.
No countdown clocks. No conference branding. No laser-lit stages or celebrity preachers beamed in through fiber optic cables. Just God’s people gathering night after night, open Bibles in their laps and open hearts in the pews. A preacher from out of town. A piano that needs tuning. Potluck on Wednesday. And prayer…lots of prayer.
That’s how we did it my first year at Cedar Ridge Baptist Church.
We planned the revival, sure. Circled the dates. Sent the invites. Chose the theme. But what we were really doing was setting the sails, hoping God would send the wind. As a famous theologian once said, “You can’t organize revival, but you can set your sails.”
So we prayed. Not just from the pulpit, but in living rooms, kitchens, and screened-in porches. We called them cottage prayer meetings…every week, for a month. We met in little clusters, with coffee perking in the background and the Holy Spirit hovering near. That’s where I met the real heart of this church.
Rick prayed in Scripture, as if verses were etched behind his eyes.
Amarlis prayed like someone who had been walking with Jesus for years…slow, steady, intimate.
Mike prayed with quiet boldness, like he was reporting in with Headquarters.
And then there was Larry.
Larry is what I call a man of God’s own making. Eighty-four, faithful, and true. He prays like a man who has lost something and found Someone. He buried his wife a few years back, and I think some part of his soul never left that graveside. His prayers aren’t always loud, but they’re fierce…like fire under coals.
A day before revival week began, Larry invited me and our guest preacher Robert out on his pontoon. The plan was simple: a slow ride up the James River, just to breathe a little and talk about what we hoped God might do.
The water that day was liquid glass, early fall sun catching the ripples, leaves just beginning their surrender to gold. We started upriver toward Galena, a town that once sent more float trips downriver than any other in the Ozarks. Bluffs rose beside us like stone cathedrals. Herons kept watch. A bald eagle carved silent arcs overhead. Every bend in the river was a sermon without words.
After about an hour, we met the river’s quiet resistance. Shallows. Gravel. A gentle scrape under the hull as we flirted with the bottom. Larry eased the throttle, shifted into reverse, and we began the slow drift home.
That’s when it happened.
Each of us had been setting our phone alarms daily…same time, every day…to remind us to pause and pray for revival. Just a quiet ritual. But on that river, as we rode the stillness back toward the dock, Larry’s alarm went off.
And without a word, he bowed his head.
The boat was still under power.
He didn’t reach for the key. Didn’t idle the motor. Just leaned forward slightly, hands still on the wheel, eyes closed. And then, he prayed. Not loudly, but low and true…like someone confessing something sacred.
So we bowed our heads too. Robert and I, sitting in that floating sanctuary.
But I’ll admit – I kept one eye open.
Because rivers have a habit of pulling you off course.
The wind had picked up a little, and without anyone steering, the boat began a slow drift toward the rocky shoreline. Nothing urgent. Just the steady, uncorrected lean of a craft that needed a hand on the wheel.
I saw it happening, but I couldn’t stop him.
Larry was meeting with God. Not reciting. Not performing. Meeting.
The bluffs came closer.
Still he prayed.
The rocks were maybe thirty feet away. Then twenty. Then ten.
Still he prayed.
I thought, Surely this is the amen moment. Surely he’ll sense we’re veering and open his eyes. But he didn’t. Not when the bow kissed the shoreline. Not when the motor pushed gently into the limestone like a heartbeat against a ribcage. Not when the hull tilted ever so slightly, as the river reminded us it was not quite a lake yet.
Only then, after another fifteen seconds, did Larry say his final amen.
And then, with the calm of a man who knew both who he was and who he’d been speaking to, he opened his eyes and said, “I guess we better back off that rock.”
I didn’t laugh. I couldn’t. There was something holy about it.
I’ve never forgotten that moment because it taught me more about prayer than any seminary class ever could.
You see, Larry didn’t stop the boat because he didn’t think anything was more urgent than talking to Jesus. Not even running aground.
I think of Hebrews 11:27, where it says of Moses:
“He endured, as seeing Him who is invisible.”
Larry prayed like that.
With eyes closed to the world and wide open to the unseen.
That week, we didn’t have an altar call that shook the county. There weren’t headlines or testimonies that went viral. But I think revival came anyway. Quiet. Drifting. Glorious.
It started not when the music swelled, but when an old man refused to cut short his prayer, even if it meant beaching a boat.
And maybe that’s the revival we really need…
Not the kind that knocks us off our feet,
but the kind that makes us bow our heads and drift straight into the presence of God.
To learn more about my Ozark writings click here.
Recommended Resource: If you’re studying the Psalms, you won’t want to miss my in-depth review of The Treasury of David by Charles Spurgeon. This timeless masterpiece unpacks the Psalms with rich theological insight, making it essential for devotion, sermon prep, or deep Bible study. Read the full review here.
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