That's What I Love About Sunday

The best memory I have from childhood is not one specific moment in time, instead it is a day of the week. That day was Sunday. Of all days, Sunday had a routine and I enjoyed that promise. It was a day for faith, for family, and for fun. Through the years of growing up in rural Arkansas on our family farm, my little sister was born, my three older brothers moved out, and my parents got older, but Sundays always were steadfast in their unchanging schedule.

My mom was an amazing cook and breakfast was some of her best food. From her biscuits and gravy to her pancakes and bacon you always got your day started just the right way with her cooking. On Sundays though she took the morning off. As much as we enjoyed the breakfast she made, we all realized it was a very deserving break for her. You were on your own for breakfast and my typical go to was a bowl of cereal, either Lucky Charms or Fruit Loops depending on what was still available.

After breakfast I would wash up and brush my teeth. I would put on a nice collared shirt and my best pair of blue jeans to go to church. We went to church in Pleasant Plains at the First Assembly of God. It wasn’t a particularly large church. There were around sixty people, adults and kids combined. It was what I would call a country church. A white building with siding, a tall steeple with a bell atop, a sanctuary that took up most of the building, and a fellowship hall and a few classrooms in the back.

The first thing was Sunday School classes. As you moved up in grades you moved up in church classes. I can still remember every room I moved up into in that old white church. There was one set of stairs that led up to a single classroom in the attic. That was the teen classroom and where most of your most memorable Sunday School years would be spent. That upstairs room was where we all as little kids couldn’t wait to get. It was just a staircase but it marked the point where you felt like you were ready to start making your mark on the world. The adults had their Sunday School class in the main sanctuary. My dad was the teacher of that class.

When class was over they would play a song. We lined up and marched back in and out to the pews with our parents. Once everyone was in place we sang from the hymnals. Those songs were solid gospel to me. To this day I can still remember my dad singing along to The Old Rugged Cross. His voice, that sang at no time unless he was in church, melodic and deep, proclaiming I will cling to the old rugged Cross and exchange it someday for a crown.

We always sat in the last row of pews and I claimed the seat along the aisle. The end of the pews had a cross design carved into the face of the wood and I loved tracing my fingers through its deep, smooth grooves. The preacher would deliver his sermon praising the love of the Almighty and warning of the dangers of a sinful life. He would make an altar call and then a last prayer over the congregation. Then we were dismissed back out into our life as heathen boys, or as much of one as momma would tolerate.

On the way home my dad would buy the Sunday newspaper. He would get a copy of the Arkansas Gazette, or if he was unlucky enough and arrived at the newspaper machine too late, the Arkansas Democrat. Lunch every Sunday was a big pot of brown beans and cornbread. It was always accompanied with corn on the cob and fried okra. That along with a glass of mom’s Sunday sweet tea, she added a little extra sugar to that day’s pitcher. It was the same each week but never got old.

After lunch I would go into the living room, sprawl out on the floor and work my way through the newspaper. I’d always read the comics page first which was in full color on Sundays. I would laugh at the hijinks of Calvin and Hobbs, appreciate the wit from The Far Side, and root on The Phantom as he dispensed justice to the evildoers. After the comics I would work my way through the entire newspaper, stopping to read anything that caught my attention. I looked for anything military or war related in the front page, searched for any mention in the sports pages of my baseball hero Ryan Sandberg, and flipped through the Parade magazine for anything that caught my attention.

When they finished reading the paper Mom and Dad would always lay down to take a nap. With that, it was out the door and headed into the woods that surrounded our farm. There were several routes that my older brothers and I had to pick from to patrol along. We might walk for miles along the banks of Glaise Creek, visit the rock wall, go crawl into the caves, or explore the old red barn and the rock house.

Over the years as my brothers grew up and moved out it came down to me as the lone ranger out in the woods. I discovered and saw so many things on those walkabouts. Finding fossils in the gully, running into a bobcat, digging up arrowheads in newly plowed fields. There were a million things to discover out there in the great outdoors.

When the expedition was over it was back home to clean up to head to church for the evening service. After that service it was time to head back home for a shower and some TV time. Dad would always have us watch 60 Minutes and then he was off to bed since he had to go to work so early. After that we boys got to pick and the consensus would always end up on some good action show like Knight Rider, Mission Impossible, or MacGuyver. Then the tv night would wrap up with whichever of the three networks was showing the best Sunday night movie.

Then we were all off to bed to get some sleep to be ready for school the next day or if it was summer, a day of working around the farm. Laying in bed thinking back to how the day had gone, slowly succumbing to sleep.