Maybe it’s just me, but I’ve never prayed for my children quietly, or with reserve. It’s always been a pleading. It’s always been a bargaining.
Prayers for our children seem to come from a primal place of yearning.
Like, God, don’t you dare. God, I don’t know how I’ll walk through this.
And when those babies slip through our grasp, never being held in our arms or we lay them down for the last time, there’s a falling down and breaking, a shattering of ourselves that burns.
The pain sears us and there’s no comfort.
And the prayers turn loud and angry. They turn hard and broken. But they keep coming. We keep shouting them on our knees.
Then God shows up and He delivers. That baby cries and we’re put back together. Not the same as before, but stronger.
And a new prayer comes out, no words now just a great long breathing. A shaking, grateful, uncontrollable hallelujah.
Baby, you’ve made it home.