These are the “Lord, help me” prayers. These are the “show me, guide me, save me” prayers. Really, these are the prayers of a mother. And these are the realest kind of prayers I think I’ve ever prayed. ​

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. 

​This morning I threw a loaf of cinnamon bread in the oven, packaged up teacher appreciation gifts, dropped Claire off at school, and then spent a couple of hours at church with my ladies lifegroup eating and chatting. 

And this afternoon I watched the girls play in the yard, sent them to the neighbor’s house to “help” her lay mulch, and then handled our very first bee sting. I have often been absolutely floored by the beauty of this Midwest landscape – spring gardens and autumn harvest! – and I have been even more overwhelmed by the sincere love of the people here.

I am afraid when my kids are riding in a car with someone else. I often have to actively push away worry over hypothetical scenarios where my children have cancer or my husband is given just days to live. If my girls are playing outside I can be debilitated by fear over a bug’s bite or a neighbor’s dog. 

​I am also a believer who loves God, who has given my life to Christ, and who seeks to serve Him in all that I do.