On February 14, 2012, I bumbled up our stairs on crutches–a new knee injury for Valentine’s Day. The first layer of my arm pits had already chafed away, and I panted equally at the effort to move as I did at the effort to keep from sobbing at my own disappointment.
We’d gathered clumsily in my daughter’s room for bed time prayer–one kid on a bed laughing, one still chucking pillows, my husband in the door frame and me half-slumped/half-propped against the wall. We had lots to be thankful for–this, that, those…but it was my son’s one-liner that began a blessing in my heart.
“Dear Lord,” he started. “I pray healing and love on mom’s knee….Amen.”
I’d smiled. And then I’d graciously wiped my whole face on my sleeve.
For 365 days, the time it has taken to get off crutches and recover and then get back on them again in October eight months later with an injury to the same knee, my small son has uttered his prayer over me.
His prayer that has dropped the ‘ing’ on “healing” — “Dear Lord, “I pray heal and love on mom’s knee…Amen”–and which can be said in one breath in his underwear with his eyes open–“DearLordIprayhealandloveonmom’skneeamen.” This prayer. These words. They move me. Still.
They reverberate in my mind and in my chest. “Heal and love.”