I love woodworking. Sometimes I pretend I’m Joanna Gaines and try to remodel my entire bathroom. Who’s with me? I always have grand plans. But reality hits fast—especially when I find myself hammering a screw into the wall using the top of a spoon. (We listen and we Don’t judge.) Next thing I know, I’m fixing a hole in the drywall I created with my “brilliant” idea.

It’s funny how clear it is with tools: if we don’t use the right one, we can cause more harm than good. But when it comes to parenting—especially praying for our kids—we sometimes forget the most powerful tool we’ve been given. Prayer isn’t a bonus or backup plan. It’s the foundational, frontline tool we’re called to use every single day.

And yet, I’ve ignored it before. I’ve dusted it off only when I felt desperate or overwhelmed. But now, I see it for what it really is: the starting place for motherhood.

I’m not writing this as a mom who has it all figured out. I’m writing it as a mom who knows what it feels like to be flat on her back, crying out for her kids when there’s nothing else she can do. I’m writing as a woman who faced cancer and didn’t know if I would live long enough to see my kids grow up. When you’re staring death in the face, the cape falls fast. You stop pretending to be Superwoman. And in that space, you realize what matters most.

I didn’t want to leave my children behind. I didn’t want them to grow up without their mom. But more than anything, I didn’t want to leave this earth without knowing I had covered them in prayer. The kind of prayer that builds legacies. The kind that doesn’t just beg for safety but calls heaven down for salvation, courage, humility, and purpose. The kind that knows I can’t save them, but Jesus can.

So, I want to offer you three of the most desperate, honest prayers I’ve ever prayed over my kids. Not because I’m super spiritual, but because I know what it feels like to not have the strength to do anything but pray. Maybe these will be tools for your own journey, momma friend—something to keep close when the days are long and the fears are real.

I pray for their salvation—especially in the valleys.

It’s so hard to even say this out loud sometimes. My natural instinct is to protect my kids from pain. From loss. From rejection. From illness. But the truth? Pain is what brought me to Christ. And it’s been the valleys, not the mountaintops, that have continued to shape me into someone who clings to Him. I don’t want my kids to suffer. But even more than that—I don’t want them to walk through life without Jesus.

So I pray that when pain comes, it doesn’t harden their hearts, but opens them up to grace. I pray that when they’re confronted with their own sin and brokenness, they don’t run from God—they run to Him. That Christ would convict their hearts, not to shame them, but to save them. Matthew 10:32 says, “Everyone who acknowledges me before others, I will acknowledge before my Father in heaven.” And John 10:28 reminds me that “no one will snatch them out of My hand.” That’s the safety I crave for my children—the kind only salvation can bring.

I pray for humility.

Failure’s coming, no matter how hard I try to help them avoid it. From missed goals to broken friendships to heartbreaks and letdowns—it’s all part of life. I don’t pray for failure, but I do pray that when it happens, God would use it to soften their hearts. I want them to know that being wrong doesn’t mean being worthless. That grace isn’t earned, it’s received. That love isn’t lost when you mess up—it actually runs deeper.

Jesus modeled this kind of humility in every step He took, all the way to the cross (Philippians 2:8). So I ask Him to make my kids more like Him. Tender. Teachable. Willing to say “I’m sorry.” Willing to start again.

I pray that fear would cease as they grow and go.

I used to dread the day my boys would grow up and move out. I clung tight, holding on like maybe I could freeze time. But cancer taught me—I don’t get to hold them forever. They were never really mine. They’re on loan. My job isn’t to keep them close, but to raise them up and let them go—to release them into a world that desperately needs the Jesus they carry.

I pray that when that day comes, they won’t go in fear but in faith. That they’ll walk into the world with boldness and compassion. That they’ll remember everything they were taught—every whispered prayer, every kitchen table conversation, every time we opened God’s Word together. I pray they’ll go not just with confidence, but with calling. Matthew 28:18–20 says they’re being sent. And I want them to know they don’t go alone.

I’ll be honest, there are nights I still get it all wrong. When bedtime rolls around and I’m worn down to the bone, I’ve whispered frustrated prayers just to get through the motions. “God, help them sleep. Amen.” But I’ve also realized that even those weary prayers matter. In fact, they might matter most.

Because the more I realize my desperation, the more I feel my need for prayer.

And maybe that’s the key. Not perfect prayers. Not polished ones. Just honest, desperate, “Jesus, please be with my babies” kind of prayers. The kind that shake heaven and soothe our anxious momma hearts all at once.

Friend, don’t underestimate what happens when you kneel before God on behalf of your children. You may not feel like Superwoman (and you’re not supposed to be). But you are a praying mom—and that’s more powerful than anything else.

Let’s be the kind of mothers who pray in the carpool line, over the laundry, in the midnight chaos, and during those tender morning snuggles. Let’s speak the name of Jesus over scraped knees, over teenage heartbreak, and over grown-up goodbyes.

Let’s be moms who use the right tool.

Prayer is the most powerful thing we can do.

So let’s pick it up, again and again.

You in?