A mother’s secret weapon

This essay first appeared on The Daily BS on November 16, 2024.

One of our sons has just returned home from a months-long assignment. After graduating last year, he spent six months job hunting, ready to follow his dreams. He knocked on this door. He knocked on that door, but nothing opened up. Until it did, and away the eagle flew.

He hit the ground running. Pressed hard to learn new skills that lay outside the degree, he poured his time and energy into studying tutorials late into the night. Every spare moment was spent practicing what he was learning in those long, night hours, and his proficiency grew as the demands of the job increased. All along the way, we prayed.

The final months found him working more than one hundred hours per week. The exhaustion was evident in his voice on the odd occasion that we could reach him by phone, and we began to grow concerned. Human strength and stamina are not infinite commodities. Of this, we were well aware, and so we did what we knew to do. We prayed for him.

Before we went to bed, we prayed. When we awoke from sleep, we whispered prayers into our pillows, knowing he was still at the office. All day long as he came to mind, I would simply say, “God, sustain him. Lord, sustain him.” His brothers, too, bent their backs to help haul the weight, and together the five of us covered him.

Now, he is back. He completed his mission successfully, and God did, indeed, sustain him. We are grateful.

In my long career as a mother, I have learned the power and delight of trusting God with my children. It did not come naturally at first, but over the years, as I began to know God for myself, I began to trust him.

“You can’t trust someone you don’t know, and you can’t love someone you don’t trust.” Like a slow-rising sun, this truth dawned on me. As I began to truly know God for myself, I began to trust him more and more. As my trust grew, so did my love. And all along the way, I kept practicing, simply carrying my kids to him and leaving them there.

Meanwhile, something very interesting began to happen. In the dark days of one son’s addiction, my heart for the sons and daughters of others began to expand. Nearly everywhere I went, I would see one of them, someone else’s kid who was struggling, and an unseen force would compel me.

In the coffee shop one day, I noticed a teenager, hoodie pulled up to hide his face. He sat alone, hunched over, and his whole being shouted, “I want to be invisible. Stay away from me, world!” Only I couldn’t. Slipping up to him, I looked into his face and began to speak. There was sadness in his eyes, so I spoke of hope and a future. I left him with a pastry from the case, something my own boys would’ve loved, and silent prayers on his behalf to a God who knew his name.

I found Hector at a Starbucks counter. He had a fine tattoo on his neck, and his clothes were trendy European. Thinking of my own fashion-forward son, my maternal heart was moved. The next thing I knew, he was talking freely with me as though we were friends, for we were. He was thrilled when I offered to pray for him, and he gave me his requests.

Marcellus, too, was a gift found at Starbucks. I was sitting at a table, doing some writing, when I looked up, and there he was. Wearing a do-rag, he slouched down, nearly laying on his spine. His phone clutched in his hand, he was scrolling until at once he shot bolt upright, muttering an imprecation. “Sorry,” he said when he saw that I had noticed.

“You’re fine,” I said, smiling. And then this, “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” he said.

“I have four boys.”

“You have four boys?”

“I do. Looking at you makes me think of them, and I’m wondering how I can pray for you.”

As though an electric charge had gone up his spine, he sat up even straighter. Removing his do-rag, phone still clutched in his hands, he leaned forward. Nearly groaning, now, he said to himself, “I have to make this a good one.” And then he told me his request.

Feeling the weight of his need, I offered reassurance. “Tonight, my family will be praying. God has a purpose for you.”

“Thank you,” he said again.

Nodding and smiling, I gathered up my things. “Watch for God.” That’s what I said, and then I stepped out into the sun’s bright light. Headed home.

There are so many more names and faces tucked in my heart and mind, and every one, a gift. Many people, in turn, have prayed for us. For every single prayer, I am grateful. We are, all of us, heading home. Let’s help each other.

Every Saturday morning, America’s small, caffeinated mom appears on the syndicated James Golden Radio Show. You can join them there weekly for encouragement and heartwarming stories.