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The Trouble With A Praying Mother

Patty sauntered into the kitchen. Her mother was at the stove stirring something in a huge pot that smelled heavenly.

"Mmmm! That smells great! What is it?" Patty asked as she tried to get a peak.

"Never you mind. It's not for us anyway. How was school?" Her mother asked, blocking Patty's view of the source of her olfactory delight.

Patty shrugged her shoulders, giving up on viewing the contents of the pot and walked over to the icebox - it was an icebox, not a refrigerator - a box that held large blocks of ice that had been delivered by, who else? The iceman. The year was 1942. Patty was thirteen. She'd been born in October, 1929 - four days before Black Thursday. She knew nothing of affluence. No one did in those days, which made being poor, if not easier than it is today, at least more tolerable. Of course, universal poverty isn't insulation against covetousness. There just aren't so many covetees sitting across the aisle in history class every day or parked on the street just outside your bedroom window or behind the glass at the jewelry counter or hanging on a rack at the Alpine Shop.

Yanking open the icebox door, she peered inside, surveying her options, which weren't many.

"What are you looking for in there?" Her mother asked.

Apparently lost in thought, she replied, "my cigarettes." Her head shot up! Had she really just said that? To her mother?

"I knew it!" Her mother exclaimed. "I knew it, and I prayed that God would show me for sure before I confronted you!"

My mom didn't stop smoking then simply because she knew my grandma knew; she just made sure, when she had children of her own, that we knew, without a doubt, that God hears the prayers of mothers.

Comments

  1. Connie SmithSeptember 14, 2009 at 2:00 AM

    That's funny; I never knew that story. Love that G'ma Lucy taught our momma to pray for her kiddos!

    ReplyDelete

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