A Prayer For My Daughter

Each night I put my baby to sleep and her tiny fingers, so warm and new wrap around her Mama’s hands. Her gentle face looks up at mine and she smiles and I sing. I sing the old hymns, the ones that bring me comfort, the ones that bring me joy and peace on hard days. I want her to find comfort too—comfort in her Mama’s voice, soft and strong, comfort in her Jesus as she grows and learns that life is hard, but that He is near and that He never forsakes those who truly seek Him; He is the Good Shepherd. He sings grace and peace over His lambs; His voice is truth and gentleness. 

Then I pray, hand over her littleness, hand over her baby-frame; she is so unaware of the harshness, of the pain outside her window; the wind of the world cuts deep. I will not be able to shield her from everything; the Lord knows what is hers to bear and He will carry her. 

But I pray, because I love her, because I love this baby lamb, given to me for a season-to protect, to nurture, to cherish. I pray and I look to His great “depths of mercy” to pour grace into her soul. 

I pray . . . 

And the prayer ascends . . . 

So I pray, because I don’t want my daughter to be rich in material things, but “poor in soul.” I pray, for I believe that the “end of all things is near,” and I want for my daughter to be one who is counted worthy to suffer for Jesus’ sake. I pray, because the distractions of this life may so easily crowd out the joy of the Gospel, and I want for her days to be filled with grace, not empty and meaningless. I pray, that her soul be redeemed and she be one of the blood-bought-ones, who someday will wear a robe of white. I pray that her heart may be sensitive, not seared, that she will have compassion, not scorn for the lowly. That she will heal and not tear down. That her words will be gracious, not harsh, embittered, tinged with the sickening sarcasm and degrading humor of this age. I pray, because it is only His grace that transforms a sinner to a saint, only His blood that redeems. 

I pray. And I trust His love for this spark of life that He created, that He formed in my womb, that He knows with a knowledge unfathomable. 

The prayers ascend. My baby sleeps. And grace blankets her softly like apple blossoms on earth’s arm.