My father was a pastor of small rural churches until I was ten years old. On most Sunday mornings, we were up early, dressed in our Sunday best, and eating “dry cereal” before piling into the family station wagon to go get a congregant who had no car.
Hymnal page numbers were posted on a wooden sign, big and bold. I sat with my mother until I was old enough to sit alone while she sang in the choir or played the piano. Then after the “children’s sermon” we were dismissed for Sunday School. Off to the church basement we went for Bible stories and songs.
Our family was always the last to leave, of course. Dad had to talk with everyone, and so Mom would wisely pack herself a sandwich just in case her blood sugar dropped too low. Then home for the Sunday dinner, most likely with a singleton, couple, or family who needed a place to eat. We wouldn’t think of going out to eat on a Sunday.
Blue Laws. Nothing was open on Sunday, with the exception of hospitals and perhaps a gas station. Sunday afternoons were for resting, letter writing (yes, by hand!), and sometimes running down the street to find a friend to play with, although we were fully aware that many families wouldn’t let their children out to play, either.
And then it was time to call Grandma and Grandpa, because those were the cheap rates, and they lived several states west of us.
What happened to the simplicity? Do you recall when we were sold a bill of goods that stated we would have MORE leisure time “in the future”? Instead we’ve tried to fill every moment with something ... anything ... for self gratification.
It’s getting more and more difficult to recall those Sunday afternoons, but I’m doing my part ... with my dog on my lap ... in my recliner ... on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
