Momma's Prayer | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: Momma's Prayer | Previous Challenge Entry
By Misty Moore
10/18/16
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Soundlessly, I walked down the hall and peeked into the room.

“Ah! There you are!” She said sweetly. “Lunch is ready. Why don’t you come help Momma say grace?” she asked.

Obediently, I walked across the room and sat quietly. As I approached she reached for my hand, “You’re such a good girl Chelsea. Every day I thank God for giving me such a sweet daughter.” She was beaming with motherly pride and patting my hand gently as she spoke. “Would you like to say grace today Chels?” she inquired.

I looked down shyly, “No ma’am,” I began, “I like it best when you do it.” I was more than a little uncomfortable with the thought of saying the prayer. But how could I tell her that? How could I possibly tell her that I didn’t understand the whole “God thing” no matter how much she talked about Him? I nervously licked my lips, desperately hoping she wouldn’t insist.

Instead, she smiled kindly and bowed her head.

“Most Heavenly and Gracious Father,” she began as usual. And as usual, I watched her, caught up in the peaceful serenity displayed on her face.

“We thank You for this beautiful day,” she continued. Hopeful, I glanced out the window behind her, but sure enough it was still raining. Just as it had been yesterday. And the day before that. And even the day before that. It seemed our world had become a dark, wet mound of mud and muck. But I smiled, holding back a little giggle, because I knew she was wrong. She hadn’t looked outside yet, she didn’t know.

“We thank You for the lovely friends and family You’ve blessed us with.” I looked around the room, noting the pictures that dotted the walls and sat on the shelves. Parents who were deceased but still lovingly remembered, siblings who had moved to various parts of the country, and several pictures of the children. Snapshots mostly, that spanned from infancy to….

“Thank You Father for the delicious food set before us,” As her words interrupted my thoughts I glanced at the food, growing colder with each second she prayed. Green beans, mashed potatoes and mystery meat. It was the same every day, ‘How could she be thankful for that?’ I wondered silently. ‘No,’ I told myself, ‘she just forgot.’

“And I thank You for a sound mind and strong body. In Jesus Name, amen.” She ended the prayer, but once again her words played at the edges of my mind as I noted her thinning gray hair and gnarled, arthritic hands that couldn’t even hold a spoon. Her tiny, frail body hadn’t left the bed for years without help, and even now the strength to sit was slowly fading. And yet she was thankful. ‘How can that be?’ I wondered.

Carefully, I began to feed her. She opened her mouth like a baby bird waiting to be fed, chewing carefully and smiling sweetly between bites. I cherished these moments with her, knowing there wouldn’t be many more. I thought about the words she had prayed, wondering how I could trust in something I would never understand. ‘Does God even accept such prayers when everything she said was completely opposite of reality?’ I asked myself silently.

“Amy Watkins to the nurse’s station,” the loud speaker intoned, harshly intruding on my thoughts.

And that’s when she looked at me. I mean really looked at me. “Trust isn’t about understanding,” she said quietly as she patted my hand, “trust is about simply enjoying the ride, no matter where He takes you. Don’t ask to understand,” she continued, “Just ask Him to do the driving.” She smiled at me again, and as her eyes clouded I knew she was lost once more in the fog of Alzheimer’s. She began humming quietly as I leaned forward and wiped a little gravy from her chin.

“Amy Watkins, phone call on line three,” the loud speaker called again, insistently. Still considering those brief seconds of clarity and the words she spoke, I knew this kind lady had given me something to ponder. “Ms. Thurman,” I spoke to her quietly, “I’ll come back in a little bit to check on you.” She continued the tuneless hum as if I had not said a word, and I left to answer my call.

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