After the attempt on his life, Dad had to forgo one of his great pleasures in life—spending time with God’s people in church. He never got over seeing his longtime friend, Jim Brady, writhing on the ground, his face in a pool of blood. Dad always blamed himself for that. It affected him deeply to know that three men took bullets intended for him. He never wanted to put bystanders in harm’s way again. And he never wanted to see that scene played out in a church. So he reluctantly avoided church for the next eight years.
The assassination attempt also moved him to recommit his life to God. While he was still in the hospital, he told me, “Michael, I’ve thought a lot about the events of that day, and how close I came to death. Not only would my earthly life have been over, but everything I wanted to do for the American people would have ended. God controlled every circumstance. I believe He spared me for a purpose. Michael, I want you to know I’ve decided to recommit the rest of my life and my presidency to God.”
Cardinal Terence Cooke of New York visited Dad during his recovery. “Mr. President,” he said, “you surely have an angel sitting on your shoulder.” There may have been more truth to that statement than even Cardinal Cooke realized.
Days after the assassination attempt, Patti talked about the incident with a friend who was a hospital nurse. Patti mentioned that Dad had seen people clad in white when he came out of the anesthesia. The nurse said, “Are you sure your father said the people wore white?”
“Yes,” Patti said. “He was definite about that.”
“It’s odd,” said the nurse. “No one in a recovery room or intensive care wears white. They all wear green scrubs.”
Patti then called Nancy and told her about her conversation with the nurse. Nancy said, “You’re right, all the hospital personnel wore green, not white.”
Who were the white-gowned figures Dad saw in the recovery room? Might they have been angels? Patti and Nancy think so. I’m inclined to agree.
It wouldn’t be surprising to find that my father was surrounded by angels in that moment of crisis. He was a man of quiet but profound faith. For as long as I can remember, Dad has been on good speaking terms with the Lord.
Dad often talked about the spiritual teaching he received from his mother, Nelle—and that, of course, is why Dad used to take Maureen and me to stay with Nelle on Sundays. He wanted us to receive the same Christian instruction that he received when he was a boy. He decided for Christ and was baptized when he was twelve years old. From that time forward, prayer was an essential part of his life. During the Great Depression, he prayed not only for his family, but for the healing of his country from its economic woes.
When he was on the Eureka College football team, he prayed before going out on the field. No, he didn’t pray to win the game. He prayed that there would be no injuries and that he would do his best and have nothing to regret at the end of the game. Dad kept his prayers to himself, fearing that his teammates might ridicule him. But one day he mentioned in a team meeting that he prayed—and all his teammates said that they prayed, too. He concluded, “That was the last time I was ever reluctant to admit I prayed.”1
Dad experienced a dramatic demonstration of the power of prayer while governor of California. Soon after he was inaugurated, a doctor diagnosed him with an ulcer. For the next year, he carefully followed the doctor’s advice, watching his diet and downing large quantities of Maalox. He also prayed for healing, but the ulcer continued to trouble him. In fact, the pain in his stomach grew continually worse as the pressures of the office weighed on him.
One morning, he got up and went to the medicine cabinet to take another dose of Maalox to start the day. A thought occurred to him, You don’t need this stuff anymore. He decided to skip the Maalox and see what happened.
He went to his office—and realized that the pain in his stomach was gone. He took his first appointment for the day—a businessman from Southern California. As their meeting was drawing to a close, the businessman got up to leave and said, “Governor, I just want you to know that I’m part of a group of people who meet every day and pray for you.”
“Well, thank you,” Dad said. “I put a lot of stock in prayer. Please thank the others for me.”
Later that day, Dad met with another businessman. Once again, as their meeting was ending, this businessman said that he and his prayer group were meeting daily to pray for Dad.
A few days later, Dad went to the doctor for his annual checkup—and the doctor was surprised to find no sign of an ulcer. Dad was healed—and he was certain he was healed by the power of prayer.
Dad deeply believed in the importance of praying for the nation. In his first inaugural address on January 20, 1981, he said, “I am told that tens of thousands of prayer meetings are being held on this day, and for that I am deeply grateful. We are a nation under God, and I believe God intended for us to be free. It would be fitting and good, I think, if on each Inauguration Day in future years, it should be declared a day of prayer.”
The prayers of other people meant everything to Dad when he was wounded by a would-be assassin. “It’s a remarkable feeling to know that people are praying for you and for your strength,” he once wrote. “I know firsthand. I felt those prayers when I was recovering from that bullet.”2
Breaking the Curse
Dad viewed prayer as a key ingredient in healthy relationships. I know he prayed daily for each of his four children. As president, he prayed that his political relationships would work smoothly so that he, his allies, and his opponents could work together for the good of the nation. Speaking before the National Prayer Breakfast on February 4, 1982, he said, “In one of the conflicts that was going on throughout the past year, when views were held deeply on both sides of the debate, I recall talking to one senator who came into my office. We both deeply believed what it was we were espousing, but we were on opposite sides. And when we finished talking, as he rose, he said, ‘I’m going out of here and do some praying.’ And I said, ‘Well, if you get a busy signal, it’s me there ahead of you.’”
On January 29, 1985, Dad proclaimed a National Day of Prayer. In his proclamation, he said, “Today our nation is at peace and is enjoying prosperity, but our need for prayer is even greater. We can give thanks to God for the ever increasing abundance He has bestowed on us, and we can remember all those in our society who are in need of help, whether it be material assistance in the form of charity or simply a friendly word of encouragement. We are all God’s handiwork, and it is appropriate for us as individuals and as a nation to call on Him in prayer.”
Near the end of his second term as president, he delivered his final address to the United Nations in New York. After the assassination attempt, he had committed his presidency to God, and God had blessed his efforts. The United States and the Soviet Union had just reached an agreement to dramatically reduce their nuclear stockpiles, so it was a time of real hope and optimism for the world. Near the end of that speech, which he delivered on September 26, 1988, my father said, “When we grow weary of the world and its troubles, when our faith in humanity falters, it is then that we must seek comfort and refreshment of spirit in a deeper source of wisdom, one greater than ourselves.”
That was how my father lived his life—and that was how he conducted his presidency. As Cardinal Cooke said, Dad must have had an angel guarding him when that gunman opened fire on the sidewalk outside the Washington Hilton Hotel. There’s ample precedent in the Bible for a belief in guardian angels. “For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways,” wrote the Psalmist.3 And the New Testament tells us, “Are not all angels ministering spirits sent to serve those who will inherit salvation?”4
I believe angels were overseeing the surgery on my father when doctors, on the verge of giving up, found the bullet lodged close to his heart. And angels must have been at his side during his talks with Tip O’Neill and Ted Kennedy and other congressional opponents as they hammered out a plan to restore the American economy. A
ngels probably whispered in Dad’s ear during his summit meetings with Mikhail Gorbachev. Angels undoubtedly gave him strength and wisdom to comfort the nation when the crew of the space shuttle Challenger perished shortly after launch.
And I believe the presence of angels is preceded by prayer. My father was accompanied by guardian angels because he prayed and because others were praying for him. Amazing things happened during my father’s presidency because he was on speaking terms with the Creator of the universe. Let me tell you about one of those amazing things.
You may find it hard to believe. In fact, I’m not sure I believe it myself. However you choose to interpret the facts, these facts cannot be denied:
For more than a century prior to my father’s election as president, there was a regular twenty-year “death cycle” among American presidents. Beginning with William Henry Harrison in 1840, every president elected or reelected in a year ending in zero died in office. Many people believe that this twenty-year cycle was due to “Tecumseh’s Curse,” a curse that (according to legend) was invoked by a Shawnee prophet, Tenskwatawa, brother of Chief Tecumseh. Tenskwatawa conjured this curse as a punishment against William Henry Harrison, who defrauded the Shawnees while governor of the Indiana Territory, and who killed many Shawnees at the Battle of Tippecanoe in 1811. Harrison was elected president in 1840 and died after just one month in office.
After Harrison, the “curse” supposedly claimed Abraham Lincoln (elected 1860), James A. Garfield (elected 1880), William McKinley (elected 1900), Warren G. Harding (elected 1920), Franklin D. Roosevelt (reelected 1940), and John F. Kennedy (elected 1960). Dad was aware of the “curse” when he ran for president, but he laughed it off as a silly superstition when he ran in 1980. Yet he came within a quarter of an inch of being the next victim of Tecumseh’s Curse. Some believe that when my father survived the assassination attempt, he broke the “curse” on the presidency (to the relief of George W. Bush, who was elected in 2000).
If you don’t believe in curses, I understand. I’m frankly not sure what to believe. But I’ll tell you this: if a Shawnee prophet actually could call down a curse on the American presidency, I’m sure we would need a president of deep Christian commitment and prayer to break that curse.
This Blessed Land
I’ll never forget Thanksgiving 1985.
The entire Reagan clan was gathered around the dinner table at Rancho del Cielo, Dad’s Santa Barbara ranch. Now most people know that if you want a pleasant and serene holiday dinner, don’t ever bring up politics or religion. Of course, our two favorite subjects in the Reagan family are (what else?) politics and religion.
As we were passing the turkey and mashed potatoes, Patti began talking about her Buddhist beliefs. Naturally, my brother Ron chimed in next, explaining why atheism is the only rational worldview.
I had committed my life to Christ and was baptized on Father’s Day 1985, so I was a new Christian. In a private conversation, I had told my father about my newfound faith. So as the discussion of religion swirled around the table, Dad leaned toward me and quietly said, “Michael, I’ve been praying that Ron would accept Christ like you and I have.”
Why didn’t Dad mention Patti? I’m not sure, but I think he probably thought that Patti, at least, was on a spiritual path that might bring her back to the faith. Dad worried that Ron, an atheist, was in greater spiritual danger.
I lived with Dad and Nancy from the time I was fourteen until I got out of high school. Every Sunday morning, Dad, Nancy, Ron, and Patti would get dressed up and go to Bel Air Presbyterian Church. They always left me behind.
Years later, I took Dad aside and said, “I’d like to know why you never invited me to go to church with the family after I moved in.”
“Your mother raised you Catholic. I didn’t want to upset her.”
“That makes sense,” I said, “but I wish you’d explained it to me earlier.”
I have heard Dad’s critics say that he wasn’t a serious Christian. They claim he only talked about religion to get votes. After all, he didn’t attend church while he was in the White House, so he couldn’t have taken the Christian faith very seriously. But Dad could not have been more serious about his faith.
Before Easter weekend 1988, I flew with him to California aboard Air Force One. I had appeared on the Larry King show to promote On the Outside Looking In, and had spent the night at the White House. As we approached the airbase at Point Mugu, I noticed Dad counting on his fingers. “November . . . December . . . January,” he said. “Nine months.”
“What are you doing, Dad? Nine months until what?”
“I’m counting the months until I can attend church again.”
“Why can’t you attend church?”
“I stopped going to church after I was shot,” he said, “When I saw those men lying wounded on the sidewalk, it really shook me up. I never want something like that to happen when I’m in church. When I leave office in January, I won’t be such a target anymore, and I can start attending church again.”
“Why don’t you go this Sunday? I think you should.”
“Well, I’ll think about that.”
Dad did attend church that Easter Sunday. Nine months later, after leaving the White House, he never missed a Sunday morning service until he became too ill to attend. After that, the pastors would come to the house. On one occasion, Dad’s pastor told me, “I came to minister to your father, but he ministered to me.”
Like most Americans of his generation, my father understood that America was built on the firm foundation of Judeo-Christian morality and values. Faith in God is central to our history and our philosophy of government.
That’s why my father spoke so frequently and passionately about our American tradition of religious freedom. Yes, atheists are free to be atheists. And as the First Amendment requires, we do not have an established state church. But we do have the constitutionally protected freedom to pray and to express our religious beliefs—not merely in private, but in the public square, in our schools, in our military, in our halls of government.
If my father were alive today, he wouldn’t ask why there’s no prayer in school. He would ask why there’s no prayer in the home. I once spoke at a Christian event where about four hundred people attended. I was introduced as the son of Ronald Reagan, a president who supported prayer in school.
I began my talk with the question: “How many people here have children in school, grades K–8?” A lot of hands went up. “How many of you pray with your children before you send them off to school?” No hands went up.
“The problem,” I said, “is not that there’s no prayer in school, but that there’s no prayer in the home. Too often, we want to blame the government or blame society. When it comes to prayer, I think we need to accept responsibility for our own failure before we fix society.”
My father often said that America has a special place in history—a divinely appointed place. At the National Prayer Breakfast in 1982, he said, “I believe this blessed land was set apart in a very special way, a country created by men and women who came here not in search of gold, but in search of God. They would be free people, living under the law with faith in their Maker and their future.”
And in the Reagan–Carter debate on October 28, 1980, he said:
I’ve always believed that this land was placed here between the two great oceans by some divine plan. That it was placed here to be found by a special kind of people—people who had a special love for freedom and who had the courage to uproot themselves and leave hearth and homeland, and come to what, in the beginning, was the most undeveloped wilderness possible. We came from a hundred different corners of the earth. We spoke a multitude of tongues. . . . We built a new breed of humanity called an American—a proud, independent, and most compassionate individual.
My father was a defender of America’s founding freedoms. He knew that we are all endowed by our Creator with certain inalienable rights. And he believed that our government m
ust never make any law abridging the freedom of religion.
How to Live, How to Die
As people of faith, we depend on God for many things. We ask God for strength in difficult times, wisdom in perplexing times, protection in times of danger, comfort in times of loss, and courage in times of fear. There are few things we fear more than death itself. My father was no different. There was a time in his earlier life when death was a mystery that troubled him, and filled him with questions and anxiety.
In 1941, Dad was in New York when his mother called him with the news that his father, Jack Reagan, had passed away. Hearing the sorrow in his mother’s voice, Dad said, “I’ll be there right away.” Nelle asked him not to take an airplane because she thought airplanes were dangerous. Dad agreed to take the train, and Nelle delayed the funeral until he arrived.
Arriving home, Dad went to the funeral chapel and spent hours sitting beside his father’s casket, thinking about death. But Dad later said that, after he had grieved and brooded over his father’s death for a number of hours, he felt a strange peace wash over him. He sensed his father saying, “Don’t worry about me, son. I’m doing fine here.”
Dad said he was never troubled by the fear of death again.
In November 1994, after he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, Dad wrote a letter to the American people. He disclosed his illness and wrote of his love for America and his hope for the future—and he talked about the end of his life, “When the Lord calls me home, whenever that may be, I will leave with the greatest love for this country of ours and eternal optimism for its future. I now begin the journey that will lead me into the sunset of my life. I know that for America there will always be a bright dawn ahead.”
Almost ten years later, on Saturday, June 5, 2004, my father passed from this life and into the presence of his Lord. He was ninety-three years old. My sister Patti later said, “If a death can be lovely, his was.” It’s true. For days, as he was dying, he had not opened his eyes. But on the last day of his life, as breathing became very difficult for him, my father opened his eyes and he looked up at Nancy. The last earthly vision he beheld was the face of the wife he loved.
Lessons My Father Taught Me Page 22
