John Wayne’s Daughter Revealed the Prayer He Said Every Single Night

Every night for 20 years, John Wayne locks himself in his study. His daughter watches  through the crack in the door. She sees her father on his knees, praying. She never asks  what he’s praying for. Then, on his deathbed in 1979, she finally does. His answer? It breaks  her heart. Here is the story. The house is quiet.

 It’s past midnight,  Newport Beach, California, 1968. Everyone is asleep except John Wayne. He’s in his study,  door closed, lights off except for one desk lamp. His daughter Isa is eight years old.  She wakes up thirsty, walks downstairs to get water from the kitchen she passes her  father’s study sees light under the door hears something quiet sounds like someone talking  she stops curious her father is alone in there who is he talking to isa peeks through the crack  where the door doesn’t quite meet the frame just Just an inch. Enough to see inside. Her father is kneeling on the floor beside his desk. Hands folded. Head bowed. His lips are moving. He’s praying.

 He’s not the type to talk about God or religion. He’s John Wayne, the Duke. Cowboys don’t kneel.  But here he is, on his knees, in the dark, praying. She watches for maybe 30 seconds,  then feels like she’s seeing something private, something not meant for her eyes.  She goes back upstairs without getting her water.

 The next night, she wakes up again,  checks. Her father is in his study, same position, kneeling, praying. The night after that,  same thing. For weeks, Isa checks. Every night her father does this, every single night.  Same time, around midnight.

 After everyone else is is asleep he goes into his study closes the door and prays alone she never asks him about it it feels too sacred too personal like walking in on someone  crying you don’t interrupt you just know something important is happening before we continue quick  question for you do you believe in prayer drop your thoughts in the  comments it’s the late 1960s in newport beach california john wayne’s house overlooks the  harbor big house spanish style red tile roof white walls bought it in 1965 after he won the oscar for  true grit this is where he lives when he’s not making movies this is home wayne has  been making movies for 40 years started in 1929 worked his way up from prop boy to the biggest

 star in hollywood made over 200 films won one oscar should have won more but that’s hollywood  he’s been married three times divorced twice twice, currently married to Pilar.  They have three kids together, Aisa, John Ethan, and Marisa. Plus, he has four kids from previous  marriages, seven children total.

 Complicated family, lots of guilt about not being there  enough. He’s also battling cancer. First time was 1964.  Lung cancer.  Lost his entire left lung.  Doctors said he’d never work again.  He proved them wrong.  Made 20 more films.  But the cancer is always there in the back of his mind.  Waiting.  He knows it’ll probably come back.  It usually does.  Wayne doesn’t talk about fear doesn’t talk about doubt doesn’t  talk about the things that keep him up at night that’s not what John Wayne does John Wayne is  tough strong unbreakable that’s the image that’s the brand that’s what America expects but alone

 in his study at midnight the image doesn’t’t matter. Nobody’s watching. Nobody’s  judging. It’s just him and God and whatever he needs to say in the dark. Issa grows up watching  this ritual. She’s eight when she first sees it, then nine, then ten. Every year she checks.  Her father is still doing it, still kneeling in his study every night still praying  alone after everyone else goes to sleep she asks her mother about it once Pilar just smiles your  father has his own relationship with God we don’t ask about it Issa learns not to ask it’s one of

 those family mysteries everyone knows it happens happens. Nobody talks about it.  When Isa is 12, she tries listening through the door, presses her ear against the wood. She can  hear her father’s voice, low, quiet, but she can’t make out the words, just the rhythm of some  talking sometimes it sounds like he’s asking questions sometimes it sounds  like he’s apologizing sometimes it sounds like he’s just tired she wonders  what he prays for success health his family his career forgiveness for  something the prayers last about 10 minutes each night sometimes longer

 rarely shorter it’s like a job, something that has to  be done, a debt that has to be paid every single day. Years pass. Isa becomes a teenager, then a  young woman. Her father keeps praying, every night, through good times and bad, through cancer scares  and comebacks, through failed marriages and new ones,  through everything. The prayers never stop. June 1979, UCLA Medical Center. Wayne is dying.

 Stomach cancer. Final stage. Days left. Maybe hours. The family takes turns sitting with him,  saying goodbye, telling him they love him,  trying to make peace with the fact that John Wayne, the man who seemed indestructible on screen,is about to die in a hospital bed like everyone else.  Isa is 23 now. She sits alone with her father one afternoon. He’s barely conscious.

 Morphine  keeps the pain away but also takes him away he drifts  in and out sometimes he knows where he is sometimes he thinks he’s on a movie set sometimes  he doesn’t know anything at all but right now in this moment his eyes are clear he’s looking at Isa  really seeing her she’s been carrying a question for 15 years,  since she was 8 years old. And if she doesn’t ask now, she’ll never know.

 Daddy? Yeah, sweetheart. Can I ask you something? He nods, barely. When I was little,  I used to see you, at night, in your study. You were praying.  I used to see you, at night, in your study. You were praying.  Wayne’s expression doesn’t change. He just watches her.  You did it every night. For years. I never asked what you were praying for.

 But I always wondered. She pauses.  What were you praying for, Daddy? Wayne is quiet for a long time, so long that Ayesa thinks maybe he’s fallen asleep.  But then he speaks.  His voice is barely a whisper.  I prayed for the men I never was.  Ayesa leans closer.  What do you mean?  Wayne’s eyes fill with tears.

 She’s never seen her father cry.  Not once in 23 years.  But now tears slide down into his hospital  pillow. The soldier I never became, the father I failed to be, the husband I couldn’t be.  His voice breaks. Every night I asked God to forgive me for the men I wasn’t  and to make me better tomorrow. Aisa is crying now too. You were a good man, daddy.

 I tried. That’s all any of us can do. Just try. He closes his eyes, exhausted from talking,  but he’s not done. I couldn’t serve in the war, had four kids, studio wouldn’t let me go.  So I spent 50 years making movies about soldiers,  pretending to be what I couldn’t be.  Every night I prayed for the real soldiers,  the ones who actually did it,  asked God to bless them,  told him I was sorry I wasn’t one of them.

 And I missed your childhood,  missed all of your childhoods,  too busy working,  too busy being John Wayne.  So every night I prayed you’d forgive me. Prayed I’d be a better father tomorrow. Never was,  but I kept praying anyway. He opens his eyes again, looks at his daughter. That’s what I  prayed for. Every night for 20 years. The men I never was. The men I should have been.

 John Wayne died two days later, June 11th, 1979. His family was there. He went peacefully.  As peacefully as anyone can go when cancer has eaten through their body.  After the funeral, Aisa went back to her father’s house in Newport Beach,  walked into his study, the room where she’d  seen him pray all those years.

 She knelt in the same spot where her father used to kneel,  tried to imagine what it felt like to come here every night, to face God, to ask for forgiveness,  to pray for the strength to be better tomorrow. She understood something then. Her father wasn’t  praying because he was weak.  He was praying because he was strong enough  to admit he wasn’t perfect,  strong enough to ask for help,  strong enough to keep trying,  even when he kept failing.

 Ayesa told this story publicly  for the first time in 2001.  15. She was 59 years old, speaking at a charity event in Los Angeles. Someone asked her what she  remembered most about her father. She told them about the prayers, about watching through the  door crack when she was eight, about asking him on his deathbed what he prayed for, about his answer.

 My father was the toughest man in movies, she said. But every night, he got on his knees and admitted to God that he wasn’t good enough.  That takes more courage than any fight scene he ever did.  The story spread.  People couldn’t believe it.  John Wayne praying every night?  John Wayne asking for forgiveness?  John Wayne admitting he wasn’t perfect?  But that’s exactly who he was.

 Not the character on screen,  not the symbol of American masculinity, but the real man. The one who knew he’d failed,  who knew he’d missed chances, who knew he’d let people down, and who kept asking God for  one more chance to do better. If this story moved you, hit that subscribe button and drop a like.  Leave a comment below.

 What do you think about John Wayne praying every night for 20 years?  We’d love to hear your thoughts. And unfortunately, they don’t make men like John Wayne anymore.