Growing up, Sunday mornings at my house were anything but serene. With my dad needing to leave early for church meetings, it was left to my mom to manage the chaos of six kids. We would drag ourselves out of bed, groggy and uncooperative, often with one sister in tears over breakfast. The atmosphere was anything but calm as we scrambled to find shoes that had been misplaced since the previous week and argued over who got to use the bathroom mirror first.
“Put on a slip!” my mom would shout, her voice rising as she tried to maintain order. “That’s your brother’s tie!” The morning routine felt like a battle, and the last thing on our minds was attending church. By the time we piled into the family minivan, we were grumpy and uncomfortable, dreading the reprimands that awaited us after the service. Even as the car door slammed shut, her voice would echo reminders about being late.
But then, something remarkable happened. Once we were settled, and the door was closed, Mom transformed. She would fold her arms on the steering wheel, close her eyes, and shake off the morning’s chaos. In that moment, she’d pray. I found it perplexing how she could transition so quickly from frustration to spirituality. It felt disingenuous to me, a teenager who struggled to manage her own emotions.
Despite my initial annoyance, I came to recognize my mother’s unwavering faith. She was a dedicated Christian, not just for show but a true believer. Every chaotic morning ended with her sending us off into the world with a prayer, a practice I couldn’t quite appreciate as a teenager.
Now, as a mother myself, I find that I pray more than I ever did in my previous 28 years without kids. Most of my prayers are quiet and spontaneous, shaped by my desire to understand what my sons truly need. I lean on God, who I believe knows them better than I do, seeking insight into their needs and potential. In the quiet of the night, I would often pray for sleep, pouring my heart into those moments of desperation.
As my boys started spending time away from me, I found myself praying for their happiness, safety, and love—often asking for support from others when I felt inadequate. When my oldest began preschool, we established a new tradition of praying in the car before leaving the driveway. Seatbelts fastened, radio off, we would take a moment for prayer. My husband, who isn’t as chatty in the mornings, sometimes finds the kids’ requests for prayers a bit annoying. However, when your child asks for a prayer to help settle their nerves, it brings out your best self. They even remind him if he forgets, highlighting the importance of our ritual.
Reflecting on my childhood, I am grateful for those car prayers. Though it wasn’t a tradition I expected to carry on, it has become a meaningful part of our lives. Amidst my many shortcomings as a parent, I hope my children see that I genuinely care for them and am willing to seek help from a higher power.
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Summary
The author reflects on their chaotic childhood Sunday mornings, where their mother would manage the chaos of six kids before church. Despite initial annoyance at her quick transition from frustration to prayer, the author now embraces the tradition of ‘car prayers’ with her own children. This practice has become a meaningful part of their family dynamic, allowing for moments of reflection and support.