And this is how the day begins here every morning:
The girls and I drive down our snow-packed country lane at 5 miles per hour.
For one-third of a mile, I tarry along that stretch of gravel, steering between the creaking bones of undressed trees — all of them swaying under winter’s breath.
And the girls and I, we pray.
We talk to God about the things that trouble us, and the things that astound us. Over the years, we’ve prayed for loose teeth and lost cats; longer recesses and easier tests. We’ve prayed for new kids who sit alone at lunch, and old friends who seem to have forgotten we exist when birthday invitations go out.
We’ve prayed for broken hearts and mended friendships. We pray blessings on their days, and Light upon their paths. And we thank God for the big and the little miracles, sometimes with our tears.
And, if there’s time before bus No. 44 crests that hill, the girls ask, “Mommy, can we pray for you?” As they get older, it happens more. They have begun to sense that there is blessing in praying over someone you love.
So they lay their little hands on my shoulders, and they lay tender words out like a silk ribbon of a song. They have a sixth-sense — a Spirit sense, I think — about what a mom needs.
They know, for instance, that I have half-dozen writing projects sitting on my desk, and that I don’t want to send any of those words out into the world until they are “just right.” And they also know that if I wait that long — until the words are perfect — that I’ll never let a single sentence fly from the nest.
My daughter Lydia — firstborn heiress to my DNA — prays the words over me. And her words … they floor me: “Dear God, help my mom realize that creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes.”
I don’t know where she heard it — art class, maybe? — but I’m undone. A lump in my throat rises. I reach a hand up to my shoulder, and set it on top of hers.
And I choke out the words, “Amen.”
I pat her hand, and I whisper it … my Amen.
(Photos of daughter, and her art…)
Posting also with Emily …
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