A Mother's Worship

When prayer and praise

pervade His sanctuary,

my voice unites with others

(or chokes up completely)

in worship.

I believe 
that,

amid the swelling song
of a multitude,

God sees my soul 
reaching up, 
alive with longing.

My declaration of His greatness

confesses my smallness. 

By this, 
I worship.

When noise and duty
hem me in,

and small hands jerk my dress

while someone calls, "Mom!"

above incessant crying,

I turn from frying onions

and trip over playthings--

I feel no swell of worship
and offer no eloquent praise.

I only whisper,

“Lord, help me.”

I believe 
that,

amid the cacophony 

in my kitchen cathedral,

God sees my soul 
reaching up,
alive with longing.

My desperate, 
“Lord, help me,”

declares His greatness

and admits my smallness.

By this, 
I worship.
--Sara Nolt 

Inspiration for this poem came through Joylynn Esh who said, "One day a Canaanite woman fell at Jesus' feet and said, 'Lord, help me.' It was her form of worship." I'm still blessed, Joylynn. Thanks.