On Saturdays in summer
my father worked at the feed
mill till twelve. At the noon
meal (we called it dinner)
he would sometimes graft
onto his usual table grace
a phrase I learned to dread,
a red flag warning that
the rest of my day would
not be spent playing baseball.
I believed then and believe
still he was addressing
me more than God or at
least it was fifty-fifty:
" . . . and Lord we thank Thee
for the privilege of working."
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Boy do I identify with that. I was "privileged" to spend many holidays doing special chores like washing, waxing, and greasing our 1950 Ford instead of going swimming, mountain climbing, etc.
ReplyDeleteDale, looking back on it, I guess I should give my dad a pass . . . after all, he had lived through the Depression of the '30's and did indeed regard having work both privilege and blessing.
ReplyDeleteKen
Understood and agreed. The same is true of my Dad, of course.
ReplyDelete