"On Fridays around these parts we like to write. Not for comments or traffic or anyone else’s agenda. But for pure love of the written word. For joy at the sound of syllables, sentences and paragraphs all strung together by the voice of the speaker.
We love to just write without worrying if it’s just right or not. For five minutes flat.
So here it goes: What Mama Did . . .
I was 5 and it was hot. A hot summer night when the sun set late and my friends got to stay out late too. But not me. Bedtime came too early those summer nights, especially when the windows were open and I could hear them playing down below my 2 story apartment window.
Pray? I don't know that word in my young mind.
Here before my bed?
Let's fold hands.
Okay. I'll do what you say.
Say this . . "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep."
My first prayer. My first experience with God The first time anyone ever told me there was a God that I could talk to. So we prayed and I learned that there was a God and that is what Mama did.
She taught me to pray.