In college she reconnected with a childhood friend – my dad – and they were married right after World War 2. Within 11 years, she found herself with four boys and all the boisterous rambunctiousness that comes with them. She’d seen what city life did to boys, so she prayed for a place in the country to raise us. God granted her request, and when her oldest was 14, we settled into a little house outside Morgantown, Kentucky. She loved all of us intently and prayed for us, often weeping in her earnestness. We didn’t just grow up. She, in lockstep with my dad, RAISED us!
I wish every young boy had a mom who loved us as much as she did. And when we launched out on our own, she didn’t stop. Every mother knows it doesn’t end when a child heads out into the world to establish their own place. Her prayers followed us even when she didn’t hear from us for months. There were no cell phones then and expensive long-distance calls were reserved for serious life events. We weren’t that committed to writing letters either. But she cried out to Jesus for every one of us every day.
Sometimes we boys got tired of all her passionate lamentations. But I’d give anything to hear her “storm the gates of heaven” one more time.