This One is For My Mom

A Bible with binding swollen from use and pages crinkled with ink and tears is open lying face up. There are notes written in scrolling, swaying letters in the margins marking lessons learned. Hear the prayers offered in low murmur from her knees – passion and pleading fills its tone. It is so full and rich I swell at its sound. 

These are the sensations that mark nearly every morning of the childhood in my memory. My mama, bent over her Bible, bent into prayers, bent towards her Savior, broken but bound in Him. Morning worship, prayer, and meditation coming from a desperation for more, more, ever more of the Savior: more of His strength, more of His wisdom, more of His presence, more of Him. 

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