When Joni first told me about the eighty-twenty, it felt like the world upside down.
I had been a Christian for most of my life and thought I knew everything there is to know about prayer. I mean…, I had this prayer thing down.
Turned out, I didn’t.
My name is Ruth Schleppi-Verboom, and for many years I helped Joni Eareckson Tada on Sunday Evenings. Joni broke her neck when she was seventeen and has lived with quadriplegia ever since. Unable to use her hands or legs, she requires a great deal of physical help.
I loved our Sunday evenings together. We had a sweet routine that started in the afternoon at my home, where I prepared dinner before heading over to Joni and Ken’s house. On Sundays, I cooked double portions—one for my family (Helmut, my husband, and our four children) and one to bring along. Carefully wrapped in clean tea towels and carried in my basket.
At six o’clock sharp, I would knock on the door and step into Joni’s home. A warm welcome and a set table to greet me—three plates already there, awaiting the three of us, Joni, Ken, and me.
That detail never escaped me, how they had prepared a place.
I always find much meaning in sharing a meal. Not just because I love to cook, but it is that even the unseen maintenance of daily life can hold something beautiful. Preparing a place, chopping the onions, cooking the food, setting the table, anticipating moments of togetherness—each of these gestures expresses an ‘I see you’ kind-of-love.
And no, our conversations were not always spiritual or serious. At dinner we spoke of everything and nothing, yet there was always room for depth or honest questions; it was a place where each of us could simply be.
And right after dinner, Joni and I got to work.
Living with paralysis and chronic pain, Joni’s body was exhausted at the end of the day and ready to be in bed—out of her wheelchair, free from the corset that helped her breathe.
Our routine was steady and familiar. We moved through it swiftly. Flossing. Brushing teeth. Washing her face. Scratching an itch behind her ear. Blowing her nose. Shoes off, blouse off, corset off.
Then, together with Ken, lift her into bed. Put on warm socks, breathe in and out, while exercising and stretching her arms and legs. The work itself was practical—a cadence of motions—while our conversations were anything but.
One evening, I asked a question that had been weighing heavy on me; it wasn’t an easy one.
I had been angry with God. Upset that He didn’t take better care of Joni.
This year had been hard for her. The chronic pain was intense, and she was undergoing radiation treatments for cancer that had returned. Not long ago, she had gone through COVID. She wouldn’t complain, but I could see the toll it took on her body.
It was I who had complained to God about it, loud and clear.
That evening, while she maneuvered her wheelchair into the bathroom and positioned herself in front of the mirror, it seemed like the right time to ask…
“Joni,” I said bluntly, “isn’t it enough?”
As I stood behind her, we both looked at each other in the reflection of the mirror, while I continued, “I don’t think it’s fair, Joni. You have been through so much; isn’t it enough? Aren’t you angry at God?”
I used many more words, while she listened quietly, as if she was trying to hear the real reason behind my frazzled words. My hands still in motion, her hands still in her lap.
While rinsing her toothbrush, I realize the question I was so afraid to ask…Can God be trusted? Can I trust God with my life—with my heart?
And without judgment, only clarity, she said, “No, I am not angry. Truly, I am not. But you know, Ruth, there was a time I was angry with God, and I told Him exactly how angry and disappointed I felt.”
She paused.
“And He listened. God taught me something that has helped me ever since. He showed me how to pray differently.”
That’s when she explained the eighty-twenty.
“If a prayer is one hundred percent,” she said, “I use twenty percent for the problem. I tell God how hard it is, how much I wish He would change things. I name the pain and cry it all out. That’s it.
With that, He knows how I feel.”
“The remaining eighty percent is away from the problem, toward God. I ask Him what He wants. I listen. Ask Him how I can grow. Whether there is a scripture He wants to bring to my mind. How I can bless others—even in this. And that’s it, that’s the eighty.”
Now it was my turn to be still.
One sentence out of five I thought. That is nothing!
I told her that if it were up to me, I would tell God about my problems all day long—and how I think He could (and should) fix them. Two hundred percent.
But that night, I began to pray differently.
I learned it’s not about ignoring pain or disappointment, nor is it about everything being miraculously fixed. It is about being intentional with our focus. About choosing where we place our attention.
Slowly but surely, something shifted for me. Praying with the 80-20 in mind brought me more peace, more clarity, and less anxiety.
The world’s right side up, as I’m learning to rest in the One who holds it all.
{If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like this episode of The Love Offering Podcast, where Rachael chats with Rachel Wojo about the significance of prayer in our lives. Rachel shares personal stories of answered prayers, including a miraculous financial provision, and emphasizes the importance of cultivating a relationship with God through prayer. You can listen to the episode here.}
About the Author:
Ruth Schleppi-Verboom is the author of “Sunday Evenings with Joni: Conversations About Life’s Chaos and Amazing Grace.” She also designs jewelry inspired by these stories, including the 80-20 necklace.
