How beautiful it is to remember the clutch of my mother’s warm hand, gentle upon my own as she pulled me into her prayer circle.
How she has prayed over many lives and acted as a deliverer for many who once thought themselves unremarkable. The teenage boy, leery of others but receptive to her quick hug and “I’m praying for you.” To watch his eyes glisten as his face blossomed with a smile of beauty.
She recognizes so many that are hurt or lost. One thing she does, that I don’t is to adapt their lives as her own. I do not have that power nor want to acclimate that closely with those when I have three precious souls to guard and grant safe harbor into adulthood.
Her touch, her words…her love. To remember with a backwards glance at her beauty but to walk firm my own path.