This post is for Ann Koreker’s Mother’s Day project at High Calling Blogs
One recent Friday morning, I told my 11-year-old daughter to hurry up with her earrings so I could take her to school. She said her ear hurt. I looked closely and discovered that she had developed an infection from the piercing.
Immediately, I knew I had to do two things:
1) Call the doctor, to prescribe
2) Call Mom, to pray
Only, I couldn’t call Mom. She had just died. She would not be able to pray for my daughter.
That’s when I lost it.
How could my daughter survive without Mom’s prayers? How could my son? Or my husband? How could I live another week on this earth without her prayers?
When Mom was alive, I didn’t need to pray. That was her job — one she excelled at. When she asked me to pray for her, I said I would, but I lied. Why should I bother praying? Her prayers were already better than anything I could ask or imagine.
This time, the praying was up to me. This is what came out: “God, I mean … really! Come on!”
That was about as far as I got, praying solo. So, I cried. I fussed at God for taking away my Prayer Warrior.
After a few bitter minutes, I called the doctor. It took two rounds of antibiotics to clear up what turned out to be a staff infection in my daughter’s ear.
It may take more than two rounds to clear up this infection in my soul. Not just losing my mom, but losing my spiritual compass. How can I live a Christian life without her?
I don’t want to tie this post up too neatly, but this Sabbath-thing gives me a candle flame of hope. In fact, many Sabbaths I have lit tea candles for each prayer burden, as if to say, “Here, God, You pray.”
When the light is extinguished, I leave it in His hands.
I guess I’ll have to do that with my Mom, too. But I may need a bigger candle.