There is a particular kind of tired that only mothers of small children know.

Three years ago, I was living in it.

I had three kids under six.

A baby who didn't sleep.

A four-year-old who didn't stop talking.

A five-year-old who had just discovered the word why.

My husband, Jonathan, worked long hours, and most days I didn't talk to another adult until he walked through the door.

I loved my life.

I was also drowning in it.

I'd lie awake at night with my heart racing, running through everything I hadn't done.

And during the day, I'd grab my phone every few minutes, scrolling for some tiny escape that never actually helped.

I was Catholic.

We went to Mass every Sunday, usually spending most of it in the cry room.

But prayer?

I didn't have time to pray.

I barely had time to shower.

The Woman in the Cry Room

One Sunday, an older woman named Marguerite sat down next to me in the cry room.

She didn't have any kids with her.

She told me later that she sat there on purpose, to help tired moms.

She held my baby through the whole homily so I could actually listen.

Afterward, I told her I wished I had more time to pray.

She smiled and said I had it backwards.

She said I didn't need more time for prayer.

I needed to let prayer into the time I already had.

Then she wrote three things on the back of a church bulletin and handed it to me.

The First Thing: Give Him the Day

The first thing on her list was the Morning Offering.

It's a short prayer where you give God everything in your day before it even starts.

Your prayers, your work, your joys, and your sufferings.

Marguerite told me to say it before I picked up my phone.

That was the hard part.

I taped a copy to my bathroom mirror and started saying it while I brushed my teeth, usually with a toddler hanging on my leg.

It took less than a minute.

But it changed something.

The diaper changes, the spilled cereal, the endless laundry, all of it had already been given to God.

None of it was wasted anymore.

The Second Thing: The Dishwasher Saint

The second thing on her list was a name.

Brother Lawrence.

I looked him up that night.

He was a lay brother in a Carmelite monastery in France in the 1600s.

He spent years working in the kitchen, a job he didn't especially like.

And he became famous for one simple idea.

He learned to stay aware of God's presence while he scrubbed pots and cooked meals, talking to Him like a friend in the room.

He said he felt as close to God in his busy kitchen as he did on his knees in the chapel.

I read that standing at my sink full of dishes.

I actually laughed.

So I started trying it.

While I folded laundry, I'd pray for whoever would wear each piece.

While I nursed the baby at three in the morning, I'd talk to Jesus about my day.

While I drove carpool, I'd say a Hail Mary at every red light.

My life didn't slow down.

But it stopped feeling like I was living it alone.

The Third Thing: One Hour

The third thing on the list scared me.

One hour of Eucharistic Adoration, once a week.

Our parish had a small chapel where the Eucharist was exposed on the altar for people to come and pray.

Catholics believe that the consecrated host is truly Jesus, so sitting in that chapel means sitting with Him.

I told Marguerite there was no way I could find an hour.

She said she would watch my kids on Thursday mornings.

I didn't have an argument for that.

The Quietest Room in the World

The first Thursday, I sat down in that chapel and didn't know what to do.

No baby crying.

No one asking me for a snack.

No phone, because I left it in the car on purpose.

The silence was so loud it almost hurt.

For the first fifteen minutes, my mind raced through my to-do list.

For the next fifteen, I cried, and I didn't even know why.

And then, somewhere in the second half hour, I just went still.

I looked at the host in the gold monstrance on the altar.

I didn't say anything.

He didn't say anything.

We just sat together.

It was the most rested I had felt in five years.

A Mother Who Understood

Over the next few months, I started bringing a book with me to Adoration.

Marguerite gave me one about Saint Zélie Martin.

She was a wife and mother in nineteenth-century France who ran a lace business, raised a houseful of daughters, and buried four of her children.

One of her girls grew up to be Saint Thérèse of Lisieux.

Zélie's letters were full of exhaustion, worry, and money troubles.

They were also full of trust.

She and her husband, Louis, were canonized together as saints.

A tired mother, with a messy house and too much to do, became a saint.

That gave me more hope than I can explain.

What Peace Looks Like Now

My kids are a little older now.

The house is still loud.

The laundry still never ends.

I still lose my patience more than I'd like.

But the racing heart at night is mostly gone.

The phone stays in a basket on the counter for most of the day.

I still say the Morning Offering at the bathroom mirror.

I still talk to Jesus over the dishes.

And I still go to Adoration every Thursday morning.

Marguerite passed away last spring.

Now, on Sundays, I sit in the cry room even though my youngest doesn't need it anymore.

I hold other people's babies through the homily.

And when a worn-out mom tells me she wishes she had time to pray, I smile and tell her she has it backwards.

Then I grab a bulletin and write three things on the back.

Grace is a composite character, and this story is illustrative, inspired by the real experiences of many Catholics who have found peace through prayer.

Your turn: Where do you find quiet time with God in a busy life? Tell us in the comments below.