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Sunday, Dad

Tom Roby

Dad went to church every Sunday
to please mom. I went to church so
she could tell her mom that I’d been
raised in the faith.

Back and forth we journeyed between
low church and high, dad stoic and
silent-staring into some empty
space outside-until the service
was over.

I liked some of the hymns, like
“Onward, Christian Soldiers” that
appealed to my militaristic sense.
But more often, my mind would race
to after-church, when dad would
give me playground tips on how
to catch a football.

As I sat in my pew, I could hear
his voice over the church music,
shouting for me to “watch the ball
come down over your shoulder,
then pull it in with both hands!”

I thought he threw passes like Johnny
Unitas, and I was Raymond Berry,
his touchdown receiver. I learned to
keep my eye on the ball, thanks to dad.

In church, I took catechism. From my
lessons I learned that some questions
don’t have easy answers. Dad threw
some nickels and dimes into the
collection plate and left it at that.

We stopped going to church when
I took my questions off to college.
Dad shouted his advice to televised
football players. Neither one of us
seemed to miss the services. Only
mom looked lost.

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