with conviction, mothers raise their children in prayers like rivers of the night, like the dreams of the negro mother. A higher Love, through adversity, through trauma and tragedy. through all night prayers, sitting by the bedside,
awaiting -little makings of something beautiful.
A higher Love,
that love would ask a mother’s dream – be heard over preaching reins of suffering up storms,
be heard again in the quiet ache and swarm.
allow the the dust to settle in a moment a woman is born…
Her prayers will breathe.
Dear God, for all of our Mothers
our prayers will wear our names as embers that burn before the throne
prayers that be: raging, weeping, sowing , seeping prayers that break the monotony, degradation and brutality prayers that have no end and no beginning. ~kindness sis Krissy.