Footprints of a Heroine

My mother’s life was a testament to the power of prayer. Long before the world began to stir, she would rise, not to cook or clean, but to pray. Behind the closed door of her room, the whispers of her communion with God would drift through the house, leaving an indelible mark on my heart. She believed prayer was not just a Sunday ritual or reserved for times of desperation, but a daily necessity—spiritual nourishment as essential as food. “Prayer is like food for your soul,” she would say.