“Prayers in the blood,” she said couched over I could see, the pain piercing through her eyes – beholding the mother of Jesus on the cross and for several hours we waited. The light in the bedroom was dim, the small lampshade flickered while the sun caught the latter glimpse in the afternoon. The dust settled over her collection of bibles. “Thompson Chain reference”, “Schofield” “Amplified” the list goes on. 

when she was ready she led her final prayer- for ninety-three years prayer had been her way forward in every season. Her manifesto on survival –  “God you get the glory”  she’d say when things went wrong and even when they went the way she wanted.

“Get glory to your self  O’ God”

One word of prayer links a lineage of prayers that have gone before us, and long after our feet should walk upon the earth. The prayer of faith remains like blood.

with slanted eyes, her lips gave out- Father we thank you- You’ve been my cup, my oil, “my lifter of my head” “you’ve seen me through every change in my body and now that my body has one last cord to give, I’m still thankful,”

and the rest she prayed in her language a lost tongue, no longer spoken- but I’d heard that sound growing up.  I’d seen this smile of rest, sitting over her face, the gentle white midst, appearing “like a vapor”

Prayer is never lost, even when we’d stop praying.

“Prayer is in the blood”

Mother Arnold is dearly missed but her prayers live on.

Kindness sis, krissy