But the service could be a struggle for my dad. He was a dairy farmer and never had a break. Twice a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year he milked the cows like clockwork. Was it any wonder, then, that on Sunday mornings having already worked several hours, he would often sleep in church? He wasn't the only one. Once I counted 4 or 5 other farmers dozing off, one almost falling off the pew.
Since our church was founded by German ancestors, we still followed the custom of men sitting on one side of the sanctuary, while the women sat on the other. (In the middle section, younger couples sat who preferred not to be separated.) Because I sat with Mom I had a clear view of my dad across the expanse as he oversaw my 5 older brothers. They sat stair step fashion beside him and knew better than to act up. I remember times, when the men dozed, that the preacher raised his voice and shouted out a few words in an attempt to wake them up. But they didn't flinch.
As a child I wasn't bothered by Dad's habit. And as an adult I find the memory to be a tender one. Our little congregation of less than a hundred simply accepted that farmers who toiled in the early morning hours deserved to nod off when they had a chance to sit for a few moments. Besides, the men didn't sleep away the entire service. The message still got through to them, at least to my dad.
When my father reached ninety, he left his familiar farm house and the red brick church and moved to the city to live with me. For the next five years he attended my large church. And he rarely slept because he didn't need to get up before dawn. The first day in my urban home he told me he was no longer going to wear his bib overalls which he wore every day on the farm. They were for the country, he said. But I saved a pair of his well worn Big Macs and tucked them on a shelf in my closet. They are a poignant reminder of how it used to be when Dad was up early milking on Sunday mornings and then nodded off in church.