Holding in Prayer

Spencer stretches,
accepting love,
long limbed,
arms round my neck,
feet past my knee.
Gives butterfly kisses.

Rachael sits by my side,
practicing grown-up independence,
then clings coyly
and hides her head
at the hint of strangers.

Robbie smiles at his Papa’s voice.
He’d let us hold his babyself all day.
Sometimes we do.

Other children. Other times.
My own children when they were young,
growing in my heart.
The special ones I lift from a distance,
offering a surrogate mother’s prayers.

Jude who died.
Kaitlyn with leukemia.
Healthy Matthew,
tucked under a paternal arm.
And Audrey,
named for a Nana gone to heaven.

My own mother holds the infants
becoming once more herself,
nurturing generations.
Time doesn’t matter, nor language, nor infirmity.
Later, she falls asleep
like a child herself,
in my arms
on her narrow bed.
She stirs and wakens slowly
as if we had forever.
One day, we will.

Shall we hold each other in Godspace,
kindred and friend,
in God’s place?
Shall we gentle all little children with our prayers?