Wee Babe wakes in the ebony of night, his peaceful room suddenly enveloped in sobs of panic. I enter the dark and quietly pat his back, placing him into his favorite sleeping position. The quiet keeps its’ beat in rhythm with my hand taps on baby’s tummy and soon his even breathing tells me he has drifted back to sleep.
I can feel the Spirit nudging in the quiet as I begin to pray over his crib, the whispered words floating above the room. They hover thick like a flannel blanket, reaching across the space: wall to wall, ceiling to floor wrapping us in the still of prayer. This is Holy Ground. God meets us in this season.
As I finish the prayers over one I automatically move across the room to another child’s peaceful dreaming, and then the few steps down the hall to the girls’ room. I touch each one, laying my hands on their foreheads and hands, heart beating prayers in sacred rhythms ushered before the throne of holy breath. These little ones dream sweet dreams without care as I meet our Creator here in this place, a partnership on their lives’ behalf. A mother who is bowing before the Mighty One.
As I kneel down beside youngest girl’s bed, the lower bunk requires more than a bending or hunching of back, I feel my knees meet carpet.
A mother’s heart in full submission.
A face layed low.
The God of the cosmos bends His ear to hear the words a mother prays over her children. He hears these words spoken with hushed breath. He hears the heart-longings so deeply treasured and stored that no human words could form. He hears the Spirit’s prayers where only my groans can escape. I can barely stand beneath the weight of it. I am nothing as a mother without Him. Even on my best days, when I know it all and no one lost an eye, no broken limbs or hearts; even at the end of those days I know I am nothing as a mom without Him.
On this day, when fatigue reigned, the migraine and crink in my neck would not give, when I hollered too loudly, was too firm in redirecting childish fits of temper and found my own anger boiling over the edge; each time I royally screw up this thing called, “motherhood”…God hears me. He knows when I blow it. He knows the intentions of my heart throughout the day and into the night. The God who knows me, still bends His ear to listen to what I say.
My voice matters to Him.
My prayers do make a difference.
So I keep praying into the wee hours and still of night. I mess up and start over, fess up and begin new, and He hears.
“The purest form of love is given with no expectation of return. Measured by this standard, earnest prayer for others is a magnificent act of love.” -David Hubbard
In what Holy Ground season is God meeting you?
Photo by: Jezamama