Weekend Writing Prompt #142- Through the Psalms

Hear my prayer, O God; give ear to the words of my mouth.

--Psalm 54:2

https://pwecommunity.com/post/wwp143

Hear My Prayer

We had been on the run since the end of May, zig-zagging through Oklahoma, trying to find our way. After two years in prison, Daddy had busted out with some friends and found us at Granny’s. According to the calendar that hung on the wall behind the register at Mac’s diner, it was Saturday, July 21, 1984. Most of the outside bruises had healed.

I didn’t know where we were—only that we were farther away than we’d ever been. Mama said the place was called Riverside. I didn’t see a river yet, but I believed her. She said it like it was a promise, like the kind that meant something.

We stood outside a squat building with a red cross sign hanging above the door like it could save us. There weren’t any lights on and the sign gave hours of operation Monday through Friday. was tired, hot, and thirsty. The heat clung to me like sweat on a wet towel. My shirt—faded red, white, and blue—was damp with it. My jeans stuck to my legs like glue. I reached up to push my glasses up my nose, but my hand shook a little. I dropped it back to my side.

Mama’s voice was steady as she knocked on the locked door. Mama said the American Red Cross helped people in emergencies. I wondered what counted as an emergency.

Was what we’d been through enough?

 To my surprise, a blonde woman came to the door and unlocked it. “Helen?” When Mama nodded, the blonde woman turned to me, smiling. “And you must be Marcy.”

“Come on, baby. Let’s see what they can do for us.” Mama stepped into the darkened building. 

I followed her in.

Inside, the air smelled like old paper and pine cleaner. There were no people sitting in the plastic chairs that lined the walls. A fan clattered in the corner. Mama walked up to a desk where a woman with thick glasses and a bun that made her look like a librarian was typing. She looked up and smiled.

Before Mama could speak, a voice next to me chirped, “Hi!”

I turned.

She looked like a Barbie doll, only real. Blonde ponytail swinging, white teeth shining, bright blue eyes locked on me. She looked about my age—maybe younger. Eleven, twelve? She wore a red tank top, shorts, and had a popsicle stick in her hand.

“I’m Karen,” she said. “What’s your name?”

I blinked at her.

She didn’t wait. “I’m eleven. I live here. Well, not here, but in Riverside. This is my mom’s work. Are you moving here? I hope so. Do you want to play Uno? I have it in my backpack.”

“I…” My voice cracked. I hadn’t said a word all day.

Karen tilted her head. “You okay?”

I nodded because that was easier than answering.

“Okay. Well, I hope you’re staying. We have a lot of kids to play with around here.”

Mama was still talking to the lady at the desk. Her shoulders sagged. I knew that look. It meant whatever she’d hoped for wasn’t happening.

I slipped into a nearby chair, heart thudding.

Karen sat beside me. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

I froze.

“I don’t,” she continued, undeterred. “I wish I did. Sometimes it gets lonely.”

“I had a sister,” I whispered.

Karen leaned in. “You did?”

I nodded. “Carly. She died.”

Karen’s eyes got wide and soft at the same time. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“She was five.” I looked down at my hands. “She was sick.”

Karen didn’t say anything for a moment. Just sat there. Then she held out her popsicle stick like it was something special. “Here. You can have this. It’s not a real prize or anything, but it’s shaped like a heart if you look close.”

I took it. Not because I believed her—but because it was the first nice thing anyone had offered me in a long time.

Behind us, Mama’s voice cracked. “But I thought… the women’s shelter…”

“I’m so sorry,” the desk lady said gently. “Miss Margaret passed away two years ago. The ARC closed down not long after. Given the nature of its location, it wasn’t possible to appoint a new manager.”

Mama turned away fast and blinked too hard. I knew she was trying not to cry.

Another voice, warm and Southern, came from behind the desk. “If y’all need a place to land for a few days, I can help.”

It was Karen’s mom. She was tall, thin, with kind eyes and a ponytail just like Karen’s. “I’m Janice. I used to help Miss Margaret when the shelter was open. I’ve got some vouchers and a list of motels. It ain’t much, but it’ll get you through the weekend. Then we’ll see what we can do.”

Mama looked at her like she’d handed her gold. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Karen leaned close again. “Told you people are nice here.”

I didn’t know what to think. But I tucked the heart-shaped popsicle stick into my pocket like maybe—just maybe—she was right.

🦋

The bathroom smelled like lemon cleaner and something sour beneath it—maybe old mop water or mildew in the grout. The light flickered above the mirror like it couldn’t make up its mind.

I locked the stall door behind me even though I didn’t need it, just so I could breathe without being watched. My stomach felt tight, like I’d swallowed a rock and it got stuck halfway down.

There was a rusted radiator under the window and a little round fan buzzing on the wall. I leaned against the sink, trying not to look at myself in the mirror.

But I did.

I always looked the same, no matter where we went—pale skin, dry and blotchy. Threadbare clothes. My glasses slipped again, and I pushed them up with the heel of my hand. The scar over my left eyebrow looked redder today. Maybe from the sun. Or maybe it just felt more visible in this place where people were nice.

I wasn’t used to nice.

That Barbie girl, Karen, she’d acted like I mattered. Like I was someone you’d want to play Uno with. Like I wasn’t a freak or a charity case or a girl who had to hide behind a couch while her world shattered.

I turned on the faucet and splashed water on my face. The water was cold, and it helped. A little.

When I looked up, that’s when I saw it—the poster.

It was taped to the wall next to the paper towel dispenser. Big, bright blue sky. A rainbow stretched across the top corner like someone had painted it with a brush soaked in sunlight. Below it, butterflies lifted off from a field of yellow flowers. Their wings were soft and light and glowing.

And printed across the middle, in simple black letters:

Hear my prayer, O God; give ear to the words of my mouth.

—Psalm 54:2

I read it once. Then again.

My lips moved the third time. “Hear my prayer, O God…”

It stuck in my throat.

I didn’t know how to pray anymore. Not really. I used to fold my hands in Sunday School next to Granny and whisper little prayers for Carly to be healed. For Mama to stop crying so much. For Daddy to stop being angry.

Some prayers never got answered.

Or maybe they did and I didn’t like the answers.

I stared at the butterflies and felt my eyes burn. I hadn’t cried in days, maybe weeks. Not even when we left Muskogee. Not even when Mama said we might have to sleep outside again.

But now, in a bathroom with peeling paint and a flickering light, I wanted to cry so bad it hurt. I pressed my fingers into my eyes, hard.

“I want to stay here,” I whispered. “God, if You’re listening…”

My voice broke. I covered my face with both hands and said the verse again.

“Hear my prayer, O God…”

I didn’t ask for a mansion. I didn’t ask for a perfect family. I just wanted to stop running. I wanted Mama to be safe. I wanted to be a real girl, with a friend who didn’t think I was weird or gross or poor.

“I just want to stay here,” I whispered one more time.

Then I dried my hands and wiped my face with scratchy paper towels and walked back out into the hall.

Mama was smiling at Janice. A small smile, but real.

Karen was holding a list and waving it at me. “We found a motel that’s walking distance! My mom says she’ll take you there if you don’t mind riding in the back with my laundry baskets.”

I nodded, still quiet. Still thinking about butterflies and blue skies and prayers that maybe—just maybe—God could still hear.

🦋

The motel was exactly what you’d expect from a place that took vouchers—paint peeling from the eaves, a Coke machine that half-worked, and a scratchy brown bedspread that smelled like someone else’s cigarettes. But to us, it was a palace.

Mama turned on the window unit, and the whole room filled with a roar of dusty cold air. I pulled off my shoes and curled up on the edge of the bed closest to the wall.

We stayed there for three nights. Long enough for Mama to turn in three job applications and get hired at the water department. She cried when they called her back. Not in front of them—but in the bathroom when she thought I couldn’t hear.

Janice gave us another list—this one had apartment rentals circled in red ink. We found one that wasn’t too far from the university. The outside was brick, the inside smelled like old carpet, and the windows stuck when you tried to open them. But it had two rooms and a stove that worked. And no one had to share a wall with us.

That was new.

Mama said, “This’ll be home for a while.” She said it like a question, but I nodded like it was a promise.

🦋

We moved in on a Tuesday.

By Thursday, I was going to Karen’s while Mama worked — at least until school started. 

Her house looked like something out of a catalog. Two stories, white shutters, a porch swing with cushions that didn’t have any stains. She had her own room with a twin bed covered in blue ruffles and a poster of Michael Jackson on the wall. I sat on the floor and looked around. I’d never seen so much frilly blue in one place.

“You want to listen to music?” she asked, already popping in a cassette. The speakers on her boom box lit up blue.

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t talk much, huh?” she said, not mean—just curious.

“I guess not.”

“That’s okay. I talk enough for both of us.” She grinned and held out a bag of gummy worms. “Want one?”

I took one.

We watched cartoons until her mom came home. Karen bounced from the couch to the fridge and back again, narrating every moment like we were on a talk show. I liked listening to her. I didn’t have to say anything—just smile sometimes. That was enough for her.

Once, when I looked out Karen’s window, I saw the boy next door.

He was standing under a tree with a basketball, bouncing it against the cracked sidewalk. Curly black hair. Thick eyebrows. Faded jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. He wasn’t looking at us—just focused on the ball like it was the only thing in the world.

“Who’s that?” I asked, before I could stop myself.

Karen made a face. “Ugh. That’s Travis. He lives next door.”

“Will he go to school with us?”

“He’ll go to high school this year. I’m glad. I don’t like him.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s not very friendly.”

“Oh.” I turned away from the window, but not before sneaking one more glance.

🦋

I saw him again after school started. On the school bus. He sat in the back, face pinched, staring out the window with his headphones on. He didn’t look weird to me. Just quiet.

Like someone who’d seen too much.

Like me.

I hadn’t been in a real school since third grade.

In Weatherford, when we lived with Granny, I went to a church school for a while. It was small and quiet. Mostly nice. I still had to eat lunch alone sometimes, but at least nobody called me names. That was before everything changed.

Now, at Riverside Middle School, I walked into a building that buzzed like a beehive—loud, fast, crowded. My stomach clenched when the bell rang. I wasn’t used to bells.

Karen met me by the lockers. “You got Mr. Leach for math? He’s so boring. But he’s not mean, so that’s something.”

I nodded. I’d only been there three days, and she already knew my whole schedule.

In homeroom, people stared. Not long, not mean, just curious. I kept my head down. I knew what I looked like—too quiet, too plain. Clothes that didn’t match. Glasses too thick. Teeth too big.

But Karen didn’t seem to notice.

At lunch, she waved me over and saved me a seat next to her and a boy with perfect hair.

“Brad, this is Marcy. Marcy, meet Brad.”

He grinned. “Hey.”

I blinked. “Hi.”

“He’s my boyfriend,” Karen added, like that explained everything.

I looked at her. Then at him.

He had straight, sun-bleached hair that swept to the side, a dimple when he smiled, and braces that somehow made him look even cuter. The kind of boy who looked like he’d walked off the cover of a teen magazine.

I almost laughed. Not because it was funny—because it was so perfect it didn’t feel real.

“You guys are like Ken and Barbie,” I said before I could stop myself.

Karen burst out laughing. “Oh my gosh, I’m totally telling people that! Ken and Barbie—it’s perfect!”

Brad laughed too. “I can live with that.”

I wasn’t sure if they were making fun of me or not, but Karen nudged my shoulder with hers. “You’re funny,” she said. “I like that.”

I looked down and smiled a little into my lunch tray.

🦋

After school, I waited on the sidewalk outside the building. I still didn’t ride the bus—Mama said not until she knew who the driver was and what route it took.

But I saw him.

Travis.

He stepped onto the bus ahead of a few others, headphones around his neck, hands shoved in his pockets. He didn’t look at anyone. Just kept walking to the back like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

I wondered what music he listened to. Something loud? Something angry?

Something that helped him forget things?

🦋

Later, at Karen’s house, we did homework in her room. Well—she did homework. I tried to figure out how to hide the fact that I didn’t know half of what was on the worksheet.

When she wasn’t looking, I copied her answers.

“I think Brad likes you,” she said suddenly.

I nearly choked on my pencil. “What?”

She grinned. “Just kidding. He’s mine. But he said you seem nice. He usually doesn’t talk about my friends.”

“Oh.”

Karen shrugged. “It’s okay if you like him a little. Everyone does. But just so you know, he’s off limits.” She winked and flipped through her math book.

I didn’t like him—not like that. But I nodded anyway.

Brad was too much sparkle, too much shine. Too far from the shadows I’d lived in.

“We’re getting married someday.” Karen stretched across her bed with her feet kicked up behind her. She turned another page. “It’s a given.”

“A given?” I wrinkled my brows. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s something he learned in Algebra. I think it means you can count on it.”

“Oh.” I turned back to the window. Disappointment settled in my chest when the neighbor’s yard turned up empty. I couldn’t stop wondering about Travis.

🦋

The sky was too blue, the grass too green. Everything at the park felt a little too bright that Friday.

The entire school was on a field trip to the city park—a reward for finishing the first six weeks of school without “major disruptions,” as the principal put it. I wasn’t sure what counted as major, but judging by the noise around me, we were all about to test the definition.

Karen and Brad were walking ahead of me, fingers barely touching. She giggled at something he said. I trailed behind, not really part of the group but close enough to avoid looking like a complete loner.

The city park sat in a hilly stretch near the edge of town. Soccer fields on one side, swing sets and slides on the other. Everything was freshly mowed. The wind kicked up little puffs of dust and carried laughter like it had someplace to be. Karen pointed out a tree that had a heart carved into the bark and KW+BW 4ever within the heart. She grinned. “See? It’s a given.”

That’s when I saw him.

Travis.

He stood in the middle of a wide grassy field, a red rubber ball at his feet. He looked like he hadn’t planned to be there—just showed up and stayed because no one told him to leave. A few boys stood around him, including Brad.

I stopped walking. Just enough to watch.

Travis kicked the ball—hard.

It smacked another boy right in the face.

The kid stumbled backward, hands over his nose. Red hair. Fair skin. Tears welled up fast.

That’s when she appeared.

A tall girl with wild red hair in a high ponytail and long legs in capri pants came storming onto the field like a tornado. Her bright blue shirt flared in the wind as she shouted, “Travis! What is wrong with you?!”

She stomped across the grass, all fire and fury.

“I didn’t mean to!” Travis yelled back.

She didn’t care. She pushed him. Hard.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Each time, he backed up, hands out like he didn’t know what to do with them. She screamed something else I couldn’t hear over the wind, and then she turned to the redheaded boy, yanking him up.

Travis stood frozen.

Nobody stepped in.

I looked around. Teachers stood by the picnic tables, too far away to hear or see. A couple of the other boys snickered. Brad looked uncomfortable, but he didn’t move.

My heart thudded like a drum in my ears.

I couldn’t breathe.

The way she pushed him—it was too familiar.

I felt the old panic rise in my throat like bile.

I turned away and walked fast toward the playground, needing to be somewhere else—anywhere else.

🦋

I sat on the low wall by the swings, staring at the elementary kids playing like nothing had happened. Their laughter was real, not forced. Their shoes were clean. Their arms didn’t have scars.

I watched them and felt tired. So tired.

I dropped my head into my hands and whispered the only thing I knew to say:

“Hear my prayer, O God…”

It came out dry and scratchy.

“I thought this was supposed to be different,” I murmured.

Riverside wasn’t supposed to have yelling and pushing. Girls who screamed and shoved were just as bad as dads that did.

It was supposed to be safe here.

I stayed on that wall until the teachers called us to line up. Karen came jogging over, cheerful as ever.

“Wanna ride home with me again?” she asked.

I nodded, but I didn’t look at her.

She didn’t ask why.

🦋

The apartment smelled like spaghetti—Mama’s version, which meant canned sauce, overcooked noodles, and too much garlic powder. But it was warm. It was ours.

I pushed my fork around in the bowl, barely touching the food. My mind kept looping back to the park.

To Travis.

To the redheaded girl and her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

To how no one did anything.

Mama took a sip of sweet tea, watching me over the rim of her glass. “You okay, baby?”

I shrugged.

She waited.

I looked at her—really looked. Her eyes were tired, the fine lines at the corners deeper than I remembered. But they were clear. Kind. The sort of eyes that noticed things even when you didn’t want them to.

“Mama…” I said slowly. “Do you think people are mean everywhere?”

She put her glass down. “Sometimes,” she said softly. “Why?”

“There was a fight at school. A girl pushed a boy. A bunch of times. She was yelling, and nobody stopped her.” My voice cracked. “She scared me.”

Mama’s eyes filled with something I recognized. Not fear—grief.

“Did anyone get hurt?”

“Not really,” I said. “Travis, Karen’s neighbor, kicked a ball and it hit another boy in the face. I think the boy was okay. But she was just so… unstoppable.”

“Did he kick the ball in his face on purpose?”

“I don’t know. I think maybe it was an accident.”

She nodded slowly. “Some people carry their anger like it’s armor. They wear it so long, they forget how to take it off.”

“Do you think we made a mistake coming here?” I whispered.

She reached across the table and cupped my cheek with her hand. Her thumb brushed the side of my face like she was wiping away a thought.

“No, baby,” she said. “I knew we were supposed to stay the moment I saw Karen talking to you. That was the sign I’d asked God for.”

“A sign?”

She smiled. “I prayed for Him to show me where we belonged. Not just where we’d be safe, but where we could start over. Then I saw that little blonde girl smiling at you like you were already friends. I knew right then—we were in the will of God.”

I blinked fast. My throat felt tight.

“I still miss Granny,” I said quietly.

“I do too.”

I looked down. “She always said the safest place to be was in the will of God.”

Mama’s smile faded into something more serious. “She was right.”

A knock came at the door before I could say anything else.

Karen’s voice floated in from the other side. “Hey! Y’all wanna go to Dairy Queen with us? My mom says it’s her treat!”

I looked at Mama.

She raised an eyebrow, then grinned. “Let me grab my purse.”

I opened the door, and there she was—Karen, bright-eyed and bouncing. Her ponytail swung behind her like it had a rhythm of its own.

“Ready?” she chirped.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to smile.

Maybe this place wasn’t perfect.

But maybe it was good enough.

🦋

Dairy Queen smelled like fry oil and vanilla soft serve.

I sat across from Karen at a red booth that stuck to my legs. She was already halfway through a chocolate-dipped cone, talking a mile a minute. Her mom sat next to mine, laughing about something that happened at the laundromat last week. For a second, it felt like we were just… regular people.

Then the redheaded girl walked in.

My stomach twisted.

Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail again, and she wore the same bright blue shirt from the park. She waved like this was totally normal, then slid into the seat beside Karen.

Karen beamed. “Marcy, this is my best friend—Kellie.”

I stared. “Her?”

Kellie’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

My face went hot. I leaned toward Mama and whispered, “That’s the girl from the park. The one who pushed that boy.”

Karen blinked. “Wait—what?”

I looked down, unsure if I should’ve said anything. “She was yelling. And she pushed him. A lot.”

Karen turned to Kellie. “Was that you? At the park?”

Kellie shrugged, unapologetic. “Yeah. That was Travis. He’s a jerk. He’s always picking on Phillip.”

“Phillip?” I asked.

“My brother. He’s a little too soft. Travis knows it. He pushes his buttons all the time.”

“So… you push him back?” I said carefully.

Kellie looked me dead in the eyes. “If my brother won’t defend himself, I will.”

Karen nodded like that settled it. “Travis is a bully. He’s always acting like he’s too tough for everything. Phillip’s sweet, but he’s kind of a sissy. And Brad—” She glanced at Kellie and grinned. “Brad is a dream.”

Kellie rolled her eyes and licked her spoon. “So dumb.”

I sat back and watched them joke and laugh like none of this was strange.

But to me, it was.

Back in Weatherford, Granny taught me that even when someone deserved a talking-to, you didn’t put your hands on them. You prayed. You talked things through. You walked away if you had to.

But here? It felt like everyone had sharp edges.

I looked over at Mama. She was listening to Janice tell a story about church bake sales. She looked relaxed. More relaxed than I’d seen her in months.

Karen reached across the table and handed me a napkin. “You okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

I wasn’t sure I liked Kellie. I wasn’t sure I liked the way she’d pushed Travis, or the way she smiled like it didn’t matter. But Karen hadn’t changed. She was still warm and sunny and kind. And her mom still made mine laugh.

That counted for something.

🦋

Back at home, I sat on my bed and pulled out the popsicle stick Karen gave me the day we met. The one shaped like a heart, if you looked close enough.

I traced it with my thumb and whispered Psalm 54:2 under my breath.

“Hear my prayer, O God; give ear to the words of my mouth…”

Maybe God had answered. Maybe He was still listening.

Even if I still didn’t understand it all.

The apartment was quiet.

Outside, a train groaned in the distance. The walls creaked when the wind blew. My bed was small, and the sheets didn’t match, but they were clean. The air smelled like lavender dryer sheets—Mama’s splurge for the week.

I lay on my side, staring at the wall, the popsicle stick still in my hand.

Across the room, Mama’s soft snoring came steady and deep. She had worked nine hours today and still made spaghetti for dinner. She was stronger than anyone I’d ever known.

I closed my eyes.

Images from the last few weeks swirled in my head like a slow-moving slideshow.

The Red Cross.

Karen’s smile.

The butterfly poster.

The verse.

The yelling at the park.

Dairy Queen.

My mom laughing again.

Granny used to say, “Sometimes you don’t realize God answered until you’re already living inside the answer.”

I wasn’t sure if this was the answer. Not completely.

But I had a friend now. A safe bed. A school with real classes and teachers who gave me books. A crush on a boy who was as misunderstood as I had always been, even if people thought he was bully. And a mama who looked ten years younger every time she smiled.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin.

I missed Granny.

I missed Carly too.

Some aches don’t go away overnight.

But in the quiet stillness of this tiny apartment in a town I’d never heard of until we got here, I whispered one more time:

“Hear my prayer, O God; give ear to the words of my mouth…”

And for the first time in a long time, I believed He did.

The End

🦋

(C) 2025 Wendi S. Harrington

To download Hear My Prayer and see companion material,

visit the author's blog at https://apostolicfiction.com/post/read-mine-here-hear-my-prayer