Those Winter Sundays

ThoseWinter Sundays

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the room were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
Fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

- Robert Hayden

This photo is of my sister and her husband and kids who all offered us such wonderful hospitality while we were in England, but it was Mike, my brother-in-law in particular, who I had in mind when I read the poem today.

He is a great self-sacrificing husband and father - as described in the poem - he gets up early everyday, he has cracked and aching hands and never looks for any thanks. He makes the early morning pot of tea, then prepares breakfast and calls us when the coffee is ready. What a true example of the love of Christ!

The one thing I never feared was any "chronic angers" in their house - all grievances and niggles were promptly and healthily aired, so preventing any chronic build up of resentment.

I never had any experience of him polishing shoes, but as an aside, I must say that my nephew, Paul did a very good job of polishing shoes before the funeral!