Like every other Mormon household on Sunday mornings, ours was one of chaos. During my teenage years, my three sisters and I rushed through our a.m. routine — maintaining focus on the vanity of adolescence, of course — while battling over showers, mirror space, hair dryers, flat irons, makeup, dresses, and heels.
Living in a house full of ladies, my father was well aware that assembling the family for prayer and getting to church on time was no small feat. But he tried. Oh, did he try.
The goal was the same each week — to meet downstairs for prayer before running off to the mini-van to head to church. In an effort to help us reach this goal, Dad would bellow a number of friendly warnings as we busily primped upstairs.
First came the fifteen-minute warning. Then ten, then five. And then we were late — again.
One Sunday the warnings came on schedule, and when none of us chose to appear downstairs for prayer, Dad lost it.
“D*** THE HAIR, IT’S TIME FOR PRAYER,” he yelled. Hands holding makeup brushes, pantyhose, and curling irons froze. That might have been the first swear I heard in my home.
* * *
Fast forward 15 years. I still have problems fitting in my morning prayer. Usually the issue is remembering to make it happen — the habit has yet to be formed. And now there’s no family around to remind me.
Every now and then I’ll be in the midst of blow drying my hair when my dad’s voice will come to me: “D*** the hair, it’s time for prayer.” Those are the days my prayers happen. But more often than not, I simply forget.
So what’s the solution? Is it time to bring back the prayer rock from Primary days? Do I need to post a sign on my door so I won’t leave the house without a prayer? What works for you?
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