Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
My childhood bedroom was only 8 feet wide x 9 feet long. Just enough room for a single bed, a 6-drawer white dresser with a gold-trimmed mirror, and a small table tucked in the corner. My wallpaper featured blooming pink and purple flowers. My bedspread was Holly Hobbie brown.
Although it was the smallest bedroom in the house I was happy that it was all mine and I didn’t have to share the space as my brothers did.
I kept it neat and tidy without Mom having to remind me. I also kept my bed made. It was easy since I went to sleep lying on my back (with my stuffed dog, Fonzi, under my arm) and awoke in the same position.
Mom cleaned the sheets on my bed regularly. She’d hang them outside to dry, even in the dead of winter. Then she’d iron them before putting them back on the bed.
I loved the crisp, line-dried smell of the sheets.
At night, Mom would come into my room and tuck the sheets around my body. I felt snug. Secure. Loved.
Sometimes she would tell me a made-up story. I loved her stories.
She’d always say, “Don’t forget your prayers” after kissing me and leaving to turn off the bedroom lights.
And I never did.
I prayed, “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Oh, Lord our God thy children say, grant us thy peace and bless us all. Lord, I pray for the poor, the sick, the needy, the crippled, the paralyzed, the lame, and all those who need help.”
I usually had no trouble falling asleep, but on those nights when I was still awake after saying the short prayer above I’d start reciting the “Our Father”.
My mother created an atmosphere of security and love with this simple bedtime routine.
A routine of prayer that I continue to this day.
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