a sermon delivered on September 4, 2011
I realize that in this day and age, when marriage has failed as a consumer product because it requires attention to the other, is not sufficiently self-centered to meet the standards of our culture, it may seem a bit rude to complain about one’s own childhood. After all, when my father died eighteen months ago, he and my mother had been faithfully married to one another for fifty years. And he had lived a rather long time, for at seventy-five he was well past the sell-by date of most retired firefighters. So truly, it may look like bad form to complain. But I will anyways.
You see, when I was a child, Dad worked 24 hours on and 24 hours off. Well, sort of. Actually he worked 24 hours at the fire station, then he got off in the morning and went to another job, as partner in a painting and home improvement company. And when he got home, often well after sundown, he was exhausted. So my childhood experience of my father was largely limited to holidays and vacations, to every other Sunday when he wasn’t working in someone’s home. My grandfather was also a firefighter and served the same municipality. Continue reading “No, seriously; or, it’s not Dickens”