Only an excerpt of this article survives in the archive. The recovered text is preserved below.
I write this on a Sunday, on a plane ride back home from a business trip that overtook my weekend. A Sunday I begrudgingly gave to “work.”
Sunday is usually family day at home. When I was growing up, the same was true. On Sundays – after a late breakfast, we would dress in “Sunday” clothes and go to church in the late morning. After church, we would often eat out at a place with some swank – where my brothers and I would proceed to eat ’til our bellies ached – then spend the afternoon walking the shops, grocery shopping or seeing our cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents. I would always be a little sad when the sun would start to set. I look back on this Sunday ritual very fondly, in that faraway pastoral lens that we see some of our memories through. I want the same thing for my kids. I want my kids to remember rituals as anchors of their childhood. I think it’s important that they know that while life ebbs and flows and waves carry us in many different directions, there are traditions and rituals that bring us back to shore – where we can pause for a moment, impervious to the waves.
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