Why mamas pray
“I left a part of me there,” he said only this morning, feeling it keen.
I smiled. “That’s how your brother felt when he went to Mexico.”
They’d returned, those tired, sweaty teens, in the wee hours of the morning. Bounding in, he’d deposited his luggage helter skelter in the dining room before moving his laundry, one small foothill at a time, out to the washing machine.
Even then, he’d rushed to share the entire 11 days in a fell swoop, words tumbling from him, eyes shining as he painted in syllables, sentences, the pictures he was seeing in his mind.
“Hey, bud. We’ll have to do this tomorrow,” I’d said, weary, bleary, thrilling to the look of him and hugging his neck. It had been a quiet week and a half, and the annual celebration, The Kaboom, had suffered without his signature energy and excitement. Kid Kaboom had truly been missed.
Through sketchy updates, I knew that they’d battled heat. One day, the girls had painted pictures on 100 little faces in the 95° heat, blessing those dark-skinned children. No matter that the paint was sliding down eager cheeks, they were serving the Lord Christ, drawing love in bright colors and shapes.
I’d prayed for their health; for unity; for open doors; for divine appointments. Mother had prayed for the hearts down there, for the hearts up here, that Father God would do big things in that other land, and that our light-skinned children would return, never again to be the same.
“Did you get sick?” I asked him (mamas worry about stuff like that).
“I only had a little bit of diarrhea,” he said blithely. “The water was clean. It just had some amoebas in it.” We groaned, then chuckled, his father and I. Amoebas? Clean water? Not exactly, but he was fine, and I was thankful.
He’d nearly vibrated, then, excitement coloring his voice as he told of climbing a rock face, scaling it like a primate, searching for one handhold, one foothold at a time, only to jump from the cliff into a pool below upon reaching the top. I’m sure I paled.
“The first one was about 20 feet high,” he said, exulting in the rush. “And the second one was 25 to 30 feet. Oh, and some of the guys, they’d take a running start at it so they’d be sure to clear the rocks…” I paled again. “…and hit the pool down there.”
“It was way better than any roller coaster!” he said, exclamation marks all over his face. “It’s so high, you have a little bit of hang time. A lot of stuff goes through your mind, and you’re thinking, ‘Why did I jump?’”
A lot of stuff went through my mind, I can tell you, and I thought, “Thank You, Lord, for Your loving care and protection over my adrenaline junky.” And thank You that I didn’t know what all he was up to.
Which is a mercy, isn’t it? Mothers don’t know everything, and maybe we don’t need to. If we did, we’d never sleep a wink, and we’d never get up off our knees (there’s all that laundry, remember). That’s why we can rest, knowing that Father God is still on watch, never sleeping, and that He’s got it covered. Even in a far-away land.