Written by Elijah Woodruff
As a child, my mother used to pray with me. And every night, I would pray that God would give
me Samson strength. A four-year-old boy knows no world without strength and muscles. And
every night, my mother would pray with me so that I could have Samson strength so that I could
help her carry groceries. But mainly, I wanted to use it to climb trees and impress other boys. A
six-year-old boy knows no better joy. Still, even without Samson strength, I participated in all
our little contests and only sometimes helped my mother. And my mother, every night, would
pray for my Samson strength. An eight-year-old boy knows nothing is better than winning. And
so every night, my mother would pray with me, for me, for Samson strength so I could win what
needed to be won. One night, I told my mother, I didn’t need her to pray with me anymore. I
could do it myself. A strong eight-year-old boy needs no mother to pray for him. I heard her
strangle a noise in the back of her throat; I forgot. Forgive me, for only remembering now,
please. An eight-year-old boy’s world is full of growing up and muscles, not wisdom. She is
getting older and knows neither fear of death’s chains nor its blank blackness. But good God,
how I hope she still prays for me, for my Samson strength.
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Elijah Woodruff (He/Him) is a high school English teacher and when he’s not working, he’s hanging out with his wonderful wife. His work has appeared in Beaver Magazine, Roi Fainéant Literary Press, and others. Twitter: @Woodrelli