She Still Listens: A Tribute to Mama’s Prayer

< Inspired by Mama’s final prayer, her love for music, and the mercy of reconciliation>

I love my children—  

She wrote it plain, no flourish, no fame.  

Just truth in ink,  

A mother’s heart poured out in Jesus’ name.

My children are my life,  

My only wealth.  

Not silver, not gold,  

But salvation and health.

She prayed it in 2023,  

When her hands still held pens,  

And her feet still walked free.  

Before the bed became her altar,  

Before silence became her song.

“Even to your old age and gray hairs I am He who will sustain you…” — Isaiah 46:4  

Then came 2024—  

When pain spoke louder than love.  

Misunderstandings built walls,  

And I feared her forgiveness was lost.

I gave her a Mother’s Day card,  

I said sorry for the words that wounded.  

She accepted it with silence.  

And I wondered… had healing begun?

But grace found us this year.  

In a room where breath was thin,  

A churchmate beside me,  

A prayer rising within.

I told her how thankful I was—  

For the mother she had been,  

For the love that never left.  

And again, I whispered:

“Mama, I’m sorry.”  

And she heard me.  

Though her eyes were closed,  

Her spirit forgave me.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.” — Matthew 5:7  

I prayed for healing.  

I prayed for release.  

And God, in mercy, gave us peace.  

She heard me.  

I know she did.  

Even in coma, her soul was awake.

Then I stepped out of that hospital door—  

And she breathed her last.  

I cried every day.  

Not just for the goodbye,  

But for the mercy that made a way.

Now it’s been five months.  

And still, I ache.  

But I also rise.  

Because Mama’s prayer didn’t die.

It lives in me.  

In every lesson I teach,  

In every soul I reach,  

In every legacy I seek.

“I will sing to the Lord all my life; I will sing praise to my God as long as I live.” — Psalm 104:33  

She still listens.  

Though breath has ceased and eyes are closed,  

Her spirit leans in when the music flows.

I sing not to the air,  

But to the memory that lingers there—  

In hospital rooms,  

In whispered prayers,  

In the final breath that felt like a hymn.

Mama loved to sing.  

And now, I sing for her.  

Each note a thread,  

Each lyric a letter,  

Each chorus a kiss across eternity.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18  

Now I compile songs—  

Her favorites, my offerings.  

Because music is memory,  

And memory is love.

She is precious.  

She is present.  

She is here.

So I sing.  

And she listens.

“Whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord.” — Romans 14:8  

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