My Grandmother as Prayer Warrior - Darius Phelps

[Lawrence Robinson]

My Grandmother as Prayer Warrior


for the woman who knelt so we could stand

She never raised her voice—
not once.
But the house would tremble
when she prayed.

No need for pulpit or praise,
she sanctified the living room rug,
made altars out of ashtrays,
turned grief into gospel
with nothing but breath
& a Bible missing its back cover.

When the world gave us nothing
but “no,”
she’d murmur our names
into her cracked palms
like they were seeds
& whisper:
You gon’ bloom anyway.

This is the woman
who baptized me
in sweet tea & second chances,
sang Precious Lord
while shelling peas,
& taught me
that prayer don’t need pretty—
just purpose.

She prayed like fire:
not to burn the wicked,
but to light the way for the lost.

My grandmother didn’t fear no devil—
she’d already buried too many
to be scared of ghosts.

I watched her lay hands
on my mother’s grief,
rub the sorrow from her scalp
like it was dandruff,
like deliverance could come
through repetition.

She believed in a God
who listened
especially when the angels didn’t.
Believed in a love
that outlasted funerals,
believed in me
when I was nothing
but shaking bones
& poems too scared to be called holy.

& when I write now—
when I teach,
when I fold grief into metaphors,
when I let my voice quiver
but not disappear—
I know it’s because
her prayers
are still ringing through me.

I am the answered prayer
she never got to see bloom.

Still, I rise.
Still, I speak.
Still, I carry her name
like scripture beneath my tongue.

Because my grandmother
was a prayer warrior.
& I?

I am the war.

	- Darius Phelps
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