We never quite understand our parents so well until we, ourselves, go through some of the things they went through. I think of Mom and wonder how she ever got a full night’s sleep. I mean, she had twice as many children as I have and I rarely get through a night without worry, tears, prayers and insomnia anymore.
It’s 3:30 am on a Saturday. I fully expected to sleep all night and to get up around 5 to ready myself for a temple trip. But I have tossed and turned and prayed and just been physically uncomfortable most of the night. I think back to my teen years with such stress when I remember putting my parents through trial after trial. Oh, how I hope they have forgiven me for all that. And years later, years later, when I lived in this house and my mother was in Ogden, I called her around 2 in the morning and cried out loud on the phone about a worry I had about one of my children. She comforted me like I was in preschool. All her ohhhhs and uh-huhs, and ‘I know’s and ‘I’ll pray for you and for your child’ . . . . helped me go back to sleep.
I feel bad that my prayers are soooo repetitious. I thank Heavenly Father for all that’s good in my life. It’s a long list. And then I petition for blessings for my children. For their struggles and challenges. For their peace and comfort. For their faith. For wisdom and direction. For happiness and joy.
And then I apologize to God that it’s the same. That all my worries and prayers are the same night after night. Even when I try to change up the words, it’s all the same. My prayers are about the mistakes I made and how it affected my children and how they now pay for it. And I pray that they can somehow make better choices than I did and find contentment in spite of me.
And then I squeeze my eyes shut, try to say all of the states and their capitals and all of Wyoming’s counties and county seats and the alphabet backwards, and then finally turn on something on the iPad to make me fall asleep.