Ah, Sunday mornings in my childhood home were nothing short of chaotic. With my dad often heading out early for church meetings, it was my mom’s job to round up the six of us kids. Our mornings were a slow wake-up call, punctuated by reminders and one sister inevitably crying over breakfast. The air was thick with tension as we hunted for shoes we hadn’t worn in a week and argued over mirror space.
“Put on a slip!” my mom would shout, “That’s your brother’s tie!” Her voice could reach a pitch that would make anyone cringe. And heaven forbid someone requested a sweater vest instead of a tie—what a way to test her patience!
By the time we were all crammed into the trusty Dodge Caravan or the Chevy Suburban, the last thing on our minds was church. We were grumpy and uncomfortable, often dreading the consequences of our behavior after the service. My mom’s voice echoed in our ears about being late until the car door slammed shut. Then, something miraculous happened.
She would rest her arms on the steering wheel, close her eyes, and shake her head as if clearing the morning fog. And then, she’d pray. This abrupt transition from chaos to serenity always puzzled me. How could she flip her emotions so instantly? It felt almost hypocritical—one moment she was yelling, and the next, she was praying. After her prayer, she wouldn’t allow us to turn on the radio, leaving us in silence or enduring her lectures.
Yet, despite my teenage annoyance, one thing became clear: my mom’s unwavering faith. She was a believer—not just on Sundays but in every aspect of her life. Yes, she could be a bit much in the mornings, but she made it a point to send us out into the world with prayer. I didn’t appreciate it then, seeing it as just another way to delay our activities. But those morning prayers were solely her domain.
Now, as a mother myself, I find that I pray far more than I ever did before having children. Most of my prayers are silent, whispered on the go, as I seek to understand what my sons truly need. I lean on God, who I trust knows them better than I do, asking for insight into their essential needs and potential. During sleepless nights, I would plead for rest, confident that a loving God would hear my cries.
Once my boys began spending time away from me, especially with others, I found myself praying for their happiness, safety, and love. I often hoped they would receive what they needed from someone other than me, acknowledging that I couldn’t do it all perfectly.
As soon as my oldest started preschool, we adopted the routine of praying in the car before leaving the driveway. Seat belts clicked into place, the radio turned off, and I prayed for our day ahead. My husband, however, finds the boys’ requests for prayers a bit exhausting; he’s not one for morning chatter. Yet, when your child asks for a prayer to help ease their nerves, it’s hard not to respond with your best self. Plus, the boys are quick to let him know if he tries to skip this cherished moment.
In retrospect, I am grateful for those car prayers from my childhood. While I never imagined I would carry on this tradition, it has proven to be both meaningful and practical. Amidst my many shortcomings as a parent, I hope my children see my genuine desire for their well-being and my willingness to seek help from a higher power.
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In summary, my journey from being a reluctant participant in my mother’s car prayers to embracing them as a mother myself reveals a deeper understanding of faith, love, and the importance of connection—no matter how frantic the mornings may be.
Keyphrase: Car prayers with kids
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