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.