My father, Owen Stimer, grew up in a rural farm community in the early twentieth century. Dad's beloved mother was of the Wesleyan Methodist faith. She was in church every time the doors opened, so to speak. In Dad's early years, he was, too. Dad came to resent sitting on the hard wooden pews during the long boring church services. He decided church was not for him. His father's attitude probably confirmed his decision, but went too far. Grandpa Stimer worked Dad harder on Sunday than during any other day of the week. Grandpa wasn't a church-goer.

Fast forward to my childhood. Being a girl, I didn't have to work in the fields, but my two brothers did. All the boys in the neighborhood had Sunday off from chores; not at our house. Dad always had something lined up for them to do. If nothing urgently needed to be done, Dad still would find something. It might be cleaning out the chicken coop or picking stones. It seemed that every spring, new rocks appeared when the frost left the ground. That was the most stone infested ground my brothers had ever seen.

Do you get the picture? Their friends would be playing ball or going fishing on Sunday. Rod and Russ would be shoveling chicken poop or picking stone. Dad never relented. I think my brothers quit school at the end of the eigth grade just to get away from working on Sunday,

Take another leap forward to the late 1980's. My husband I had moved to Tennessee. My daughter, Anne, and her son, Larry, followed soon after. I didn't realize that history would be repeating itself. This place was in such disrepair. There was always something urgently needing to be done. Yes, we worked hard on Sundays, too.

Anne and Larry were not fans of my seven day work program. No matter. I had chores lined up for them to do. It seemed I had told them the story of how hard Dad pushed my two brothers to work on Sunday. Anne came up with the title, “Owen's Day.” Fed up with my schedule, they would take off early on a Sunday morning exploring country roads. If Anne had a little extra money, they would stop somewhere for an ice cream. They would be gone most of the day, returning home when they assumed I had quit working for the day. “Owen's Day” became a permanent part of our language. I thought it was funny. They didn't.

Every now and then something reminds us of “Owen's Day.” Anne laughs about it now. I suppose I should feel guilty about working them on Sunday, but things needed to get done. I didn't understand that if I honored God by respecting His Resurrection Day that the work would get done.

What brings all this to mind? I looked out the window as I sat here watching TV to see a young man pulling a wagon load of split wood over to our log cabin. The weather was in the 90's. He was shirtless and sweating. Reminded me of my brothers picking stone on a Sunday afternoon. “Owen's Day” popped into mind. He didn't look any happier than my brothers had.

Do you have something in your family's past like “Owen's Day?” Laugh. It's funny now.