“Momma, please come. I’m scared.”

Those five words called out were a common theme when I was a girl of seven, too often breaking the silence of a sleeping household. And Momma would come, sit on the edge of my bed, and pray with me.

Perhaps it was her anxious desperation. Maybe divine intervention. More likely, it was one that led to the other, and I’m quite certain Momma didn’t only pray for me. She prayed about me.

“Heavenly Father, please help me know how to help my precious girl,” I’m sure she pleaded.

And because He’s good and faithful, He answered.