Growing up, Sunday mornings at home were anything but peaceful. My dad often had early church meetings, leaving my mom to manage the chaos of six kids. We’d wake up slowly, with plenty of nudges to get us moving. One sister inevitably cried over breakfast, while others searched frantically for shoes that hadn’t seen the light of day since the previous Sunday. The atmosphere was far from serene—conflicts over mirror space and wardrobe choices abounded.
“Put on a slip!” my mom would shout. “That’s your brother’s tie!” Her voice would escalate, especially if anyone dared to suggest a sweater vest instead of a tie—now, that was a big no-no.
By the time we all piled into the family Dodge Caravan or Chevy Suburban, the idea of going to church felt like the last thing on our minds. We were grumpy, uncomfortable, and likely bracing for a lecture about our behavior once we got home. My mom would voice her frustrations about our tardiness until the car door slammed shut. Then, something remarkable happened.
She would fold her arms on the steering wheel, close her eyes, and take a moment to collect herself. With a calmness we hadn’t seen all morning, she would begin to pray. The sudden shift in her demeanor always puzzled me. How could someone go from frustrated to serene so quickly? It felt disingenuous, and I often found it irritating. After her prayers, we were usually left in silence or subjected to her admonitions for the rest of the ride.
Yet, despite my teenage annoyance, I absorbed a profound lesson about my mother’s unwavering faith. She was a devoted Christian, practicing her beliefs not just on Sundays but every day. Yes, her morning routine could be chaotic, but she never missed an opportunity to send us off into the world with prayer. While I initially saw it as an inconvenience, I now appreciate the significance of those moments.
As a mom myself, I’ve found that I pray far more now than I ever did before having children. My prayers have transformed into quick, silent invocations as I strive to understand my sons’ needs. I lean on a higher power, who I trust knows my boys better than I do, asking for guidance about their essential needs. In moments of desperation, especially during sleepless nights, I poured out heartfelt prayers, hoping for relief.
Once my boys began spending time away from me, I started offering brief prayers for their happiness, safety, and love. It was a way to express my hopes for them, especially knowing I couldn’t always provide everything they needed.
When my eldest started preschool, we established a new routine: praying in the car before leaving the driveway. Seat belts clicked, the radio turned off, and I prayed for a successful day ahead. My husband, who isn’t particularly chatty in the morning, found it amusing when our kids asked for prayers during drop-off. But he soon learned that indulging their requests brought out the best in him too. After all, children have a way of holding parents accountable!
Looking back, I am grateful for those car prayers from my childhood. It’s a tradition I never anticipated adopting, yet it holds a certain grace that resonates with me. Despite my shortcomings as a parent, I hope my children see my desire for their well-being and my willingness to seek help from something greater than myself.
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In summary, the chaos of childhood Sunday mornings has transformed into a cherished tradition of car prayers, helping me navigate the challenges of motherhood with faith and intention.