SEVERAL TIMES A DAY, "star wars" blaze through our 97-year-old farmhouse. Against the zzzippp and bbbrrr of computerized toys, one voice grows shriller and shriller.

"Get down from that window ledge. You know you're not supposed to climb up there."

"Leave your sister alone. That's the third time you've bumped her as you ride past."

"We don't poke sticks at anyone, do we? How many more times have I got to tell you?"

"Homework everybody. No, not in five minutes. Right now!"

I have to confess that voice is mine. But how else can you bring order to our otherwise peaceful home in the countryside? "Don't even suggest prayer," I sometimes say to myself in moments of real despair. "There just isn't time."

I'm never serious when I say that, because prayer has done more to stabilize our family life, overcome fear, and help put bread on the table than any other influence we know. But I have to admit it's hard to find a regular slot for it. The opportunities for prayer seem elusive—and seldom predictable. Prayer time is never long enough, though great when it happens.

But back to those star wars. In our family, all three kids want to be a star of sorts. They want meteoric grades at school. The highest scores in Junior Scrabble. Individual ownership of those family pets that don't mess up or bark too much. And they easily find reasons to zap one another for real or imagined offences.

That's when I'm reminded of the man called Hank in John Ortberg's book The Life You've Always Wanted (Zondervan, 1998). Hank had a knack for "discovering islands of bad news in oceans of happiness. He would always find a cloud where others saw a silver lining." Hank's native tongue was complaint, says Ortberg. He rarely affirmed anyone. "He carried judgment and disapproval the way [prisoners once carried] a ball and chain. Although he went to church his whole life, he was never unshackled."

At first reading, I felt a bit sorry for Hank. Then, suddenly, for myself. Was I slipping into some of those Hank-like habits? Adopting his native tongue? Dragging around a ball and chain from which I was making no serious effort to be free?

That was when I realized it was what Ortberg calls "morphing time"—the moment to wriggle out of my chains and transform all caterpillar thoughts into soaring butterflies. Make time to pray for patience, greater love, forgiveness, calmness.

I also considered some of the constants in our shared lives as a family. Love for God. Love for one another. Church. Evening prayers.

It struck me that not one of our kids had ever objected to praying with us before going to sleep. They had never suggested we skip prayers or save them for another night. And their prayers weren't junior-level appeals for God's help. You could say they were the best. Their purity, simplicity, and honesty swept them straight to the heart of Love, which is their favorite synonym for God.

I couldn't improve on the fact that "there's not a spot where God is not, for God is everywhere." It was the same God in whom the kids trusted so gratefully that was guiding my feet (whatever their size) up to Him. And God's gentleness could smooth my frantic life as effectively as it could calm the confrontational aspects of theirs.

I also assured myself that no matter what early alarm clocks, school lifts, extramurals, and verbal star wars did to my day—and to the uninterrupted quiet time I once had to study the Bible and Science and Health before we had children—I already had all I needed to cool my complaints and be more like a butterfly. After all, Science and Health makes it clear that "self-forgetfulness, purity, and affection are constant prayers" (p. 15).

Now, every day includes "morphing time" for me, mainly as a result of the evening prayers in which I now engage fully with the kids, then stretch through the next 24 hours. I find loads to praise in them, and stacks to be grateful for. I've actually told the kids how hard I'm trying to be a better mom. So, watch this space for their report-back.