Finding Peace Through Prayer: A Mother’s Journey

“He’s not coming, Mom. He said he can’t stand to be in the same room as her.” Ashley’s voice trembled on the other end of the line, and I could hear the television blaring in the background, her way of drowning out silence. I pressed the phone tighter, my heart pounding. Thanksgiving had always been the one day I was sure I could gather all my children under one roof, but this year, the air was thick with anger and things left unsaid.

I took a shaky breath, staring out the kitchen window at the trees stripped bare for winter. “Ashley, he’s your brother. Whatever happened—can’t you just talk it out for me?” My voice cracked. I hated myself for begging, loved them both too much to bear their cold war.

“You always do this, Mom. You always make me the bad guy.” Ashley hung up, leaving the silence screaming between us. I leaned against the counter, my hands shaking, the pie I’d been making forgotten. My son, David, hadn’t spoken to Ashley in months, not since that night—when his wife, Jenna, accused Ashley of spreading lies about her on Facebook. It was stupid, but in our little town outside Nashville, everyone saw everything. Suddenly, my family was a battleground.

I tried calling David next. He didn’t pick up. Jenna texted back: “We’re not coming. Sorry.”

That night, I sat on the edge of my bed, hands folded, staring at the cross on my nightstand. I whispered, “God, I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried everything. I just want my family back.”

I grew up in church, but faith had become routine—a prayer before meals, a quick verse on Sundays. Now I was desperate. I opened my old Bible, pages thin as tissue, and turned to Psalm 34: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

The next morning, I called my friend Marsha from church. “Linda,” she said, her voice soft, “let’s pray together.” I cried for the first time in months, letting the shame and anger pour out. Marsha prayed for peace, for understanding, for forgiveness. When we finished, I felt lighter, like maybe—just maybe—God was listening.

I started praying every day, sometimes all day. I prayed for Ashley, for David, for Jenna. I prayed for my own heart, too. I began to realize how much I wanted to fix everything, to take sides, even when I said I was being neutral. My prayers turned into questions: Was I loving them the way God loved me? Was I forgiving enough?

One Sunday, Pastor Jim preached about reconciliation. He said, “When you pray for someone, you can’t help but see them how God sees them.” That hit me hard. I’d been praying for God to change them, but maybe He was changing me, too.

Two weeks later, Ashley knocked on my door. She looked exhausted, her eyes rimmed red. “I don’t know how to fix this, Mom,” she whispered, collapsing into my arms. I held her like I did when she was little, rocking her and praying silently. She cried about Jenna’s words, about feeling attacked and alone. I listened. For once, I didn’t try to fix it.

That night, Ashley asked if we could pray together. We sat at the kitchen table, holding hands. She prayed for forgiveness—for herself, for Jenna, for David. I prayed for healing.

The next day, David called. His voice was stiff. “Jenna wants to talk to Ashley. She said maybe she overreacted. I’m not making promises, but… maybe we can try.”

I nearly wept. We set up a meeting at my house. The air was thick with tension when Jenna arrived. Her hands shook as she clasped her coffee mug. Ashley looked everywhere but at her. I wanted to jump in, to defend Ashley, to explain Jenna. Instead, I prayed silently for God to give me strength to stay quiet.

Jenna spoke first. “I’m sorry for what I said. I was hurt, and I wanted to hurt you back. It was wrong.” Ashley’s chin wobbled. “I’m sorry for what I posted. I should have come to you first.”

Something shifted. Maybe not forgiveness, not yet—but understanding. They sat in silence, and I prayed harder than I ever had for grace to fill the space between them.

It took months, but gradually, things warmed. David brought the kids over for Sunday dinner. Ashley sent Jenna a birthday card. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start.

Through it all, prayer became my lifeline. Not magic, not a way to control outcomes—but a way to let go, to trust, to love without conditions. I learned that sometimes, the only peace you get is the peace you find with God, even if your family never looks the way you dream.

I still pray every night. Sometimes I still cry. But now, when I look at my family, I see them the way God sees them: broken, beautiful, worth fighting for.

Do you ever wonder if faith really changes things—or does it just change you? What would you do if your family was falling apart, and you had nothing left but prayer?