Birmingham is sunny. The weather is chilly, but not unpleasant. I am in a tiny church, sitting beside my cousin, his wife, and his three kids. His two girls wear white dresses.
Times have changed. Once upon a time, I remember when all girls wore Sunday dresses. Today, I don’t see more than four or five in the congregation.
Also, I don’t see any penny loafers on the little boys. As a boy, my mother never let me attend church without wearing a pair of medieval loafers.
There are forty-two people in this room. Elderly couples, young families, a few high-schoolers, some children. It’s a trip back in time. A reminder of the days when Sunday school teachers taught us to say grace by rhyming:
“God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food…”
The congregation sings from hardback hymnals. Then, a sermon from a man with white hair, who pronounces “Lord” as “Lowered.”
I just read an article that said more Americans are working on Sundays than ever before in history. “Sundays are a thing of the past,” the article claimed.
Say it ain’t so.
The pastor tells the congregation that he and his wife have been married for fifty-two years. The church applauds. Fifty-two years is a rarity.
When the pastor and his wife moved into their first parsonage, his wife placed a large cardboard box beneath her bed, she warned the pastor never to touch it.
“This box is private,” she explained. “Promise me you’ll never open it.”
He crossed his heart and hoped to die. For fifty-two years, the Baptist man honored his word.
Until a week ago. He opened the box and it surprised him. Inside, he found it full of cash and four eggs.
He confessed to his wife what he’d done, then asked her about the box.
“Well,” she explained, “when we married, my mama said, ‘Darling, a preacher’s wife has to listen to a lot of bad sermons. Every time you hear a really bad sermon, place a hen’s egg in the box.’”
The preacher thought about this. He felt very proud of himself.
“You mean, after fifty-two years, I only preached FOUR bad sermons?” he shouted. “That’s marvelous! But, what’s all the money for?”
“Well,” his wife went on, “Whenever I’d collect a dozen eggs, I’d sell them for cash and put the money in the box.”
Church lets out. It’s time for lunch. We pile into an SUV and ride backroads, weaving northward through the hills of Jefferson County.
Finally, my cousin arrives at a house, located on acres of green. The kids leap from the vehicle and run for parts unknown.
“Don’t get your clothes dirty!” their mother hollers.
They ignore their mother like all good children will.
So my cousin’s wife tackles her children, smacks their hindparts with her bare hands, and warns them to never ignore her again. Then, she asks for forgiveness from the Lord because it’s Sunday.
Inside, the house is pure heaven. Women in the kitchen are dusting a counter with flour, stamping biscuits with a glass. Men gather in the den, swapping stories—telling blatant lies about fish, deer, and women they’ve known.
Children chase one another. Most have already gone outdoors and ruined their Sunday clothes.
A Labrador, named Big Al, is following anyone who smells like food. Today, it must be me.
Now it’s time to eat.
Twenty-three people gather in the kitchen. We all come from from different walks of life. There are eleven Baptists; six Methodists; five Episcopalians with more money than a show horse could jump over; and a handful of children with grass-stains on their clothes.
Everyone joins hands to pray. One elderly uncle suggests that his eight-year-old niece say grace. A girl steps forward. She is a towhead, wearing a dress. She clasps her hands.
“God is great,” she begins. “God is good, let us thank him for our food…”
We all know the words, and we say them in unison.
Everything changes. Life changes. Friends come and go. So does happiness. Careers die. Loved ones pass from this world. Life throws a wrench into every plan you ever had, then it bills you for the damage.
But on Sunday, for a few hours these things don’t exist. We see old friends, we eat meals around big tables. Preachers deliver goose-egg sermons. Women bless us with flour and cholesterol. And we say childish prayers.
It all reminds me that somehow, by some great miracle, we all are fed.
Please, Lord, don’t let us lose Sundays.
I heard about a fellow who had been asked to come fill in as a preacher for a little country church once. He drove out early and got to the church before anyone else was there. It was unlocked, he went in and looked around. Saw that there was a little collection box before going into the sanctuary, so he put $20 in. A little while later folks started to show up. Someone told him they were all there who they expected to be there, so they could get started. He led worship. Afterwards, the fellow who ushered fessed up that they hadn't said anything about how they would pay him. He explained that they had this box out front, and anyone who was really moved by the sermon would put some money into the box. He was so pleased to tell the guest preacher that there was $20 in the box today, which he presented to him as his pay. He drove back home, sat down for lunch with his family, and explained what happened that morning. His son said, "Well, Dad, maybe if you had put more into it you'd have gotten more out." Sundays are such good days. Let us not be so tempted to lose them.
I probably have told this before but I'm almost 72 so forgive me. My mom still goes to the church I grew up in. There is only two left but every Sunday the two have a Sunday school lesson then at the top of the hour they have a lay preacher come in and give a sermon, his wife plays the piano for the hymns. Mom says it's the only thing that is constant right now. We were raised in the country about 10 miles from town where the church is located. The town had over two thousand people now it is about a third of its hay day. Mom still lives in the house that they moved to when I was six months old and at 94, she still works in the flower garden. I live in Georgia now but still long for the days of Easter Sunday, Friday night football and Sunday dinners. One of these days maybe things will go back.