I don’t recall my mother ever asking my Dad to join us for church service on Sundays. The us being me, my mother, and my younger sister, Rebecca. He would have been more than welcome. 

He always joined us for church service during the Christmas season. More on that a bit later.

I’ve grown to realize there were likely two reasons my mother didn’t nudge my dad to joins us.

The first reason was one we all understood, accepted, and supported at the time. 

He was, no joke, exhausted from commuting back and forth to work in New York City, 50 miles roundtrip by car, five to six days a week. 

He taught English classes at Columbia University and John Jay College of Criminal Justice. By the time Sunday morning rolled around, my dad was a tired man.

As we’d be heading out the door for church, I’d see Dad settling in on the couch with the Sunday New York Times, a fresh cup of coffee. The Sunday Times paper with lots of sections and wouldn’t you know, its own magazine! I mean, the paper came with its own magazine. It was slipped in with the other sections.

I knew right then I was looking at an example of heaven on earth and, I knew right then I was looking at the luckiest person in the world. My father had a feast of interesting all to himself, and that always made me happy.

Now, to the very likely (but never mentioned) second reason my mother didn’t nudge my dad to join us for church. His singing voice. My mother had a beautiful singing voice and loved singing in church. And, there was no doubt my dad had a strong singing voice. When he sang, you heard him. His voice was distinct, probably because it was the most tone-deaf voice in the world. 

Sometimes I’d be standing between my parents in the pew. (I’d have it no other way.) When the singing started and my father started belting out, “Deck the halls with bows of holly, la la la la la -” in tones so loud and tone deaf you’d have thought he was in some kind of pain, or delusional state. He wasn’t, he was, in truth, enjoying himself. We all were.  Me and Rebecca would collapse into laughter while our mother, struggling mightily not to join, turned to my father whispering, “Lip sync, Sanford. For the love God, lip sync.”

Those moments in the pew, with my family and all our voices, are some of my happiest memories.