“And, Jesus, for the men downtown who are poor and brokenhearted. I pray for them. Let them see you, right now. Let them know that you can heal their broken hearts right now, even if they don’t get any money.”
The irony of this prayer that shot out of the back-seat, behind me, was that this was the child for which I’d been recently interceding: Lord, heal the broken parts of her heart. Teach her to find you when her circumstances don’t bend. That morning, she’d climbed the emotional scales from 0 to 10 in no time — in the face of disappointment, her emotions becoming a runaway train. “It’s a bad, bad day, Mommy!” she’d declared just hours earlier, through sobs, and I pressed pause on my day to hold her hand through a conversation she now probably knew by heart, even though her actions sometimes slugged behind.
In retrospect (often with the help of a husband’s voice), I see it. The raw material is all there. Her bleeding heart, her eyes to bless, her desire to obey, her fiery hunger to make wrong things right. But some days, I cave in, right there alongside her. “It’s a bad, bad day,” I say to Him, as I wonder if we just might be battling this when she’s twenty, not seven.