I'm pretty sure my Sundays are not what God had in mind when he was all, "And then I rested."

On a typical Sunday morning my husband lets me sleep late because he is a morning person and I am not.

He gets up, makes coffee and feeds our three girls breakfast. I stumble into the kitchen a couple of hours later (Don't hate me. My husband is amazing. And spoken for.) to pour a cup of coffee and start getting everyone ready for church.

All of my kids and I have hair that is some varying degree of curly.

Emma, my five-year-old, wants me to wash her hair and have it blown straight, every single day. And ya'll? I just don't have that kind of time on my hands because every night she goes to sleep and gets all sweaty and her hair curls right back up.

Once I roll out of the bed on Sunday and guzzle a cup of coffee, I spend the next hour saying things like:

"Stop licking your sister. You are not a cat."

"No you can not wear your Princess Jasmine outfit to church."

"It's 47 degrees outside, I think you'll be a little chilly in a sundress and flip flops."

"Quit drinking my coffee! No, you do not NEED it. Because, you are two years old!"

"I am not going to flat iron your hair. Because, you are five years old."

"I will not pick your clothes out for you. Because, you are 32 years old."

I hustle. I bustle. We rush. I yell. (Yep.)

"Get in the car. GET IN THE CAR!"

"Don't take your shoes off! Don't take your DRESS OFF!"

"You can NOT take a naked Barbie to church."

"BECAUSE I SAID SO."

I walk into church during the announcements without a second to spare. The back of my hair is all sweaty and starting to curl up even though I did flat iron my own hair.

I have a fake smile plastered on my face as my adrenaline rush fades and my coffee loses its steam. I try to focus on the pastor's words instead of what we will eat for lunch. I shush my daughters and shoo my middle child to children's church. I wonder if it's even worth the fight to get out of the house in the mornings to be there.

Then, in the middle of chaos, right smack dab in the middle of life, something momentous happens. While the communion plate passes, my daughter tugs on my sleeve and whispers in my ear and makes a decision that will change her life forever. A whispered promise, an answered prayer, the beginning of her journey.

We hurry to a lunch buffet where I make three plates of food before I make my own. Sadie, my two year old, takes off her socks and shoes and throws them under the table. A sympathetic friend and father of four, smiles and says, "It's like herding cats." Exactly.

I scheduled a photographer to take family photos during nap time. Not because I'm a complete idiot but because it was the only time our schedules would allow. I begged for smiles and pleaded for good attitudes. My toddler did flips in the grass and showed off her Elmo panties. Their scowls and arms angrily crossed at my outfit choices but magically, there was one moment captured forever, when all five of us sat together in our backyard that looks a little bit like perfect contentment.

Sometimes Sunday isn't a day of rest but every once in a while, it's a hiccup of God's grace. I'll hold my breath and take each moment He gives me.

(Robin O'Bryant is a former Mount Pleasant resident and mother of three. Read her blog online at www.robinschicks.com or e-mail her, zebandrobin@hotmail.com.)