As a child, Sunday mornings at my home were anything but serene. With my dad often rushing off to church for early meetings, my mom was left to manage the chaos of six children. We would wake up slowly, often needing multiple nudges to get out of bed. There was always one sibling crying about breakfast, and the frantic search for shoes—those elusive, once-a-week pairs—added to the morning madness.
“Put on a slip!” my mom would shout. “That’s your brother’s tie!” Her voice would rise in pitch as tensions mounted. Heaven forbid someone wanted to wear a sweater vest instead of a tie; that was a serious violation of the morning dress code.
By the time we finally piled into the Dodge Caravan or later, the Chevy Suburban, attending church felt like the last thing on our minds. We were grumpy, uncomfortable, and likely anticipating some sort of consequence for our behavior once we got home. My mom would continue her tirade about being late until the door slammed shut. Then, almost like flipping a switch, she’d transform.
With her arms folded on the steering wheel, she’d take a moment, close her eyes, and speak in a tone we hadn’t heard all morning. And then she’d pray. I always found it jarring how she could switch so quickly from shouting to solemnity. It felt insincere and frustrating to me as a teenager. After the prayer, we were subjected to either silence or her lectures, with no option to turn on the radio.
Yet, through all the chaos, one undeniable lesson emerged: my mother’s unwavering faith. She was a devout Christian—not just on Sundays but in every facet of her life. Yes, she could be a bit eccentric, especially in the mornings. Still, she always sent us out into the world with a prayer.
Now, as a mother myself, I find that I pray more now than I ever did in my first 28 years of life. Most of my prayers are quiet and fleeting, focused on understanding what my sons truly need. I turn to God, believing He knows my children better than I do, seeking wisdom about their essential needs and potential. For years, I prayed earnestly for sleep, convinced that a caring God would respond to such heartfelt pleas.
Once my boys started spending time away from me, especially in the care of others, I began to pray for their happiness, love, and safety. Sometimes, I even prayed that they would receive what they needed from people other than myself, acknowledging my own limitations.
The moment my eldest began preschool, we established a new routine: car prayers. As we buckle in, the radio goes off, and I pray for our day ahead. My husband isn’t always on board with this morning ritual; he’s not the chatty type in the morning. But when our child requests a prayer to help him feel settled for the day, it brings out the best in him. Plus, the kids definitely let him know if he tries to skip prayer time.
In hindsight, I’m grateful for those car prayers from my childhood. While I never anticipated adopting such a tradition, it holds a unique grace and practicality. Despite my flaws and uncertainties as a parent, I hope my children recognize my desire for their well-being and my willingness to seek guidance from something greater.
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Summary
In reflecting on my childhood, I’ve come to appreciate the ‘car prayers’ my mother used to initiate each Sunday morning. As a mother myself, I now find solace in this practice, using it as a way to connect with my children and seek guidance for our day. This ritual, unexpected yet meaningful, illustrates my commitment to their well-being and my faith.
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