I had been preaching for more than two decades, and I should have been at the top of my game. The church I served ran up to 1,500 on Sunday mornings, and the live telecast of our services covered a fair portion of several states. Most of my colleagues thought I had it made, and if invitations to speak in other churches were any sign, they thought I could preach.

But I didn't have it made.

My confidence was taking a beating as some of the leaders in my church let me know repeatedly that my pulpit work was not up to their standards. That's when I got serious about praying for my preaching.

Each night I walked a four-mile route through my neighborhood and talked to the Father. My petitions dealt with the usual stuff—family needs, people I was concerned about, and the church. Gradually, one prayer began to recur in my nightly pleadings.

"Lord," I prayed, "make me a preacher."

Asking this felt so right I never paused to analyze it. I prayed it again and again for weeks. Then, without warning, in the quietness of a dark night on the city streets, God spoke within me: "What exactly do you mean by that?"

The question hit with such force that I laughed aloud and said, "What a great question. I wonder what I do mean."

For the rest of my walk, I pondered God's probing of my too-general prayer. I knew I was not asking for public acclaim or to be on anyone's list of great preachers. I just wanted to be effective, to do well what God had called me to do.

Later that night, at home, I listed four specific requests and began to direct them toward the Father.