His father, Clifford Peale, was a tremendously compassionate man. If there was a need within his congregation, he was determined to meet it. His mother answered, and passed the phone to his father. She was calling with an awkward but serious request. As it turned out, she ran a local brothel.
One of the prostitutes was dying. Would Dr. Peale be willing to come and pray with her? He agreed and hung up the phone, quietly explaining the situation to his wife. Suddenly, he turned toward his boy. At the brothel the Peales encountered the nineteen-year-old prostitute, now near death.
I am bad. I am a bad girl. Peale then concluded. In the midst of this conversation, all the other women in the brothel, one by one, had begun to surround Mary, openly weeping at the sight and sound of her pain, confession and finally, absolution and assurance of salvation.
Years later, Norman Vincent Peale said that night was one of the determining factors that led him to his decision to become a pastor. He had witnessed the strength and power of the Gospel firsthand. I have been thinking of that in light of my own boys. I wonder if we have sterilized our faith to the point of rendering its appearance powerless to the younger generation.
If it appears all sweetness and light without struggle and strain, how is that going to match up with reality when times grow tight and tough? In that difficult visit, he shared with his son a vivid snapshot of the source of our strength.
