They may never see it… the prayers I whisper while wiping the table after dinner, the hope I tuck into their school bags, the love I pour into the smallest, most ordinary moments.
A mother’s prayer is not always words spoken out loud… but something quieter… constant.
Woven into the very breath of every day.
It’s in the lullabies hummed in the dark when the littlest can’t fall asleep.
In the laundry folded with tired hands, when every tiny sock and wrinkled shirt reminds me how quickly their tiny bodies are growing.
It’s in the routines I hold together, the soft place I try to be, even when I feel anything but soft.
There’s no gold sticker for making their favorite food or finding the stuffed animal before bed.
No one sees the mental checklist that’s ever-growing… the sacrifices… the stretching.
But maybe those are the prayers—
prayers offered in pieces,
in sinkfuls of dishes, in deep breaths during hard moments,
in showing up again and again, even when it’s hard.
This kind of love might not get noticed.
But it is felt. They feel it.
And isn’t that the prayer I’ve been praying all along?
That they’ll feel safe.
That they’ll feel known.
That they’ll feel chosen.
That they’ll feel the strength of home wrapped around them no matter how far they roam.
That they’ll feel loved—
in the quiet, in the chaos, in every ordinary, everyday moment that was actually never very ordinary at all.
