Ah, Sunday mornings during my childhood—what a whirlwind! My dad often had early church meetings, leaving my mom to manage the chaos of six kids. We’d wake up slowly, greeted by a chorus of reminders. One sister would inevitably shed tears over breakfast, and the atmosphere was far from serene as we frantically searched for shoes we only wore once a week, while bickering over who got to use the mirror first. “Wear a slip!” my mom would shout. “That’s your brother’s tie!” Her voice would escalate at the slightest suggestion someone might prefer a sweater vest instead.
By the time we finally piled into the family Dodge Caravan or later the Chevy Suburban, attending church was the last thing on our minds. We were grumpy and uncomfortable, dreading the impending scolding for being late. My mom would continue her tirade about punctuality until the car door slammed shut. Then, like magic, she transformed.
With her arms crossed on the steering wheel, she’d close her eyes and shake her head as if clearing out the morning’s chaos. And then, she’d pray. This sudden shift always perplexed me. How could she go from yelling to praying in the blink of an eye? It felt insincere, almost annoying. After her prayer, the radio was off, leaving us in silence or subjected to her lectures.
Yet, one thing I learned from my mother was the strength of her faith. She practiced Christianity not just on Sundays but every day. Sure, she could be a bit wild, especially in the mornings, but she never neglected to send us off into the world with a prayer. As a teenager, I found it frustrating, viewing those morning prayers as a way to ensure we’d be late for everything. We took turns praying at meals, but the morning rush was all her.
Now, as a mother myself, I’ve found that I pray more than I ever did in my entire 28 years before having kids. Most of my prayers are silent, offered on the go as I try to discern what my boys need. I lean on God, trusting that He understands their needs better than I do. For years, I prayed desperately for sleep, certain that a loving God would hear my sincere pleas.
Once my boys started spending time apart from me, especially when they were in others’ care, I began to pray for their happiness, safety, and the love they needed—sometimes even wishing for them to find support from someone other than me, because let’s be honest, I can’t do it all.
As soon as my eldest began preschool, we adopted the ritual of car prayers. Seat belts fastened, radio off, and I’d offer up prayers for our day ahead. My husband, who isn’t naturally chatty in the morning, finds it a bit annoying when the kids ask for prayers during drop-off. But when a child requests a moment of prayer to help ease their nerves, it brings out the best in you. Plus, the kids won’t let Dad forget it if he tries to skip that vital moment!
In retrospect, I’m thankful for those car prayers from my youth. It wasn’t a tradition I ever expected to carry on, but there’s an elegance and purpose to it. Despite my many shortcomings as a parent, I hope my kids understand that I genuinely want what’s best for them and am willing to seek help from a higher power.
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In summary, my childhood car prayers have morphed into a cherished practice in my own family, reminding me of the importance of faith and connection, even amid the chaos of our daily lives.