My son came home yesterday and greeted me with a few of the most terrifying words a mom never wants to hear. “I almost got killed at the El Dorado intersection in McKinney this morning.” Then he gave me a hug and walked on past.

“What?” I followed him down the hall, my heart racing ahead of me, already up the stairway and in the next room. Didn’t matter the incident was hours old and my tardy visceral response did nothing but hike my blood pressure.

Kyle turned and proceeded to tell me he’d been waiting to turn left, completely missed the guy going straight—you know the guy with the Right of Way?—and he had to swerve, hit the curb, and almost popped his tire.

After I leashed my heart and stuck in back inside my chest for optimal performance, I sagged against the stairs. My first thought? The prayer I’d murmured over him this morning before he’d walked out the door.

The same prayer I played on repeat day after day since he’d slid into that car alone and I whimpered as his tail lights disappeared down the street.

Thank you, Lord for hearing me when I pray!

Hear my prayer, O God; listen to the words of my mouth. —Psalm 54:2

But I cry to you for help, LORD; in the morning my prayer comes before you. —Psalm 88:13

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