My mom never prayed quietly. She prayed like someone who expected heaven to answer back—loudly, if possible. Growing up, I’d hear her voice carrying down the hallway, talking to God like they were hashing things out over coffee. Sometimes she’d be laughing, sometimes crying, sometimes half-yelling about bills or my brother’s report card, and somehow it never felt strange. It felt… strong. Like her faith had muscles.
I used to roll my eyes at it. I’d come home from school and find her in the kitchen, hands still in the dishwater, muttering something like, “Lord, give me patience before I lose my mind.” Then she’d see me, grin, and say, “Don’t roll your eyes, Jenni—He hears you too.” And I’d think, yeah, Mom, sure He does. Fast forward twenty-something years, two kids, one husband who leaves socks everywhere, and I’m whispering the same kinds of prayers over cold coffee and spilled cereal.
Her faith wasn’t polished or poetic. It had dirt under its nails and ran on tired mornings and strong coffee. It wasn’t the kind of faith that quoted Bible verses perfectly—it was the kind that sat next to you in a doctor’s waiting room and squeezed your hand. The kind that showed up in casseroles, in hugs that lasted a few seconds longer than you expected, in a phone call at just the right time.
When Dave lost his job a few years ago, I remember calling her, panicking. She said, “God’s gonna fill that space with something better. Stop worrying, start watching.” And sure enough, she was right—again. I could almost hear her proud little hum over the phone when things finally started turning around.
I see pieces of her faith showing up in Blanca and Patrick too. Blanca prays for our neighbors when their dog gets sick. Patrick once asked if God could help him find his favorite Lego piece. (For the record, He did. It was under the couch.) Maybe that’s the real legacy she left—faith that’s not too proud to get messy, to laugh mid-prayer, or to admit it doesn’t have everything figured out.
Some days I still hear her in my head. “Be bold, baby girl. Don’t whisper your prayers—mean them.” And when I’m standing at the kitchen sink, up to my elbows in suds, mumbling about patience or peace or the mountain of laundry I swear I just finished yesterday, I think she’d probably smile and say, “Now that’s faith.”
It’s not the kind that lives in a church pew—it’s the kind that lives right here, in the middle of our messy, beautiful life. And maybe that’s exactly where it’s meant to be.
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