I find morning prayer easy. Today is no exception.

MORNING PRAYER:

Good heavens! Where has the time gone? It’s already 6:00? Where on God’s green earth are my glasses? There … oh for goodness’ sake, it’s actually 6:30. If only I can get the kids to school on time this one day, I promise to be a nicer driver forever! Or better yet, God, give our school some money for a bus!

Ten minutes later, hair in a bun, jeans on, flyby wake-up calls complete, and eggs scrambled with minimal shells, I’m feeling like something is missing. I have a rating system for “that nagging feeling” and this is about an 8 out of 10. Impressive considering that a 10 usually means a trip to the ER. It will come to me.

Child #3 arrives first to the table, chanting a Latin conjugation for fun. Child #1 shows up next, promptly telling #3 to be quiet because no one wants to listen to that sort of thing at 6:30 am and he is doing it wrong anyway. I wonder, will this knowledge ever be useful for something other than arguing at breakfast?

Then #1 asks, “Mom, where’re our lunches?”

“It’s pizza day.”

“Pizza day is tomorrow.”

Three minutes later, the kids all have a frozen burrito and a cup of applesauce. Oh, for a cafeteria and hot lunch!

Child #2 enters singing “Let It Go,” as if instructing her brothers, who respond in their birth order by telling her to be quiet too, and by joining in, respectively. After two trips upstairs she still lacks her sweater, backpack, and correct shoes.

She stops long enough to tell me we only have two minutes, and begins again where she left off. “Let it go ….”

It hits me. Registration deadline. TODAY. And I can’t let it go.

“Everyone stop!” I ye … request. “Where are the registration forms?”

Silence. “You mean these, under the syrup?”

MORNING PRAYER 2:

Good Lord Almighty, who put the syrup on top of the registration forms? I know, I complain about syrup getting all over the table, but couldn’t they have used a napkin? Doesn’t anyone around here have a shred of wisdom? Don’t they teach that at school?

Finally, we are in the car, with a solid brown block of registration forms, lunches containing artificial ingredients, and purple moccasins in lieu of black Mary Jane’s. And I reflect.

This pile of forms represents more than procrastination. They mean another year of hectic mornings and large monthly payments and sometimes I wonder, is life really supposed to be like this?

Well-known verses unexpectedly come to mind. “To whom much is given … write these on your forehead … hear what I say to the seven churches … take every thought captive ….”

It looks like we’re going to be on time. I let the pushy driver in.

“Bye, mom!” #3 yells and waves as he heads into the school. #2 blows an obligatory kiss. #1 walks nonchalantly, until he sees a buddy and his face lights up. We have arrived. My children will now spend the day at a place where the gospel is freely taught, the content is meaningful, the rooms are warm, no one cares about the style of their clothes, everyone knows their names, God’s words are literally on the doorposts, and the overarching goal is to help them use God’s gifts to their greatest good and His greatest glory.

Not many people have days like this.

16,000 hours. That’s how long my children have before they leave to tackle the world on their own. 2,000 days. I head into the school office.

We’ll make each one of them count, syrup and all.