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Sunday

Dad chuckled to me about the good church member who told him he should not milk his cows on Sunday.

My dad ran a dairy in McPherson, Kansas, while he worked two other jobs in the 1930s. So Dad never talked about suffering in poverty through the Great Depression. Instead, he told me, “I can’t remember a time I couldn’t reach in my pocket and pull out $50.00.”

But the city boy told Dad that milking cows was work. So, even if those cows enjoyed having their milk bags emptied twice every weekday, they would just have to endure Sundays.

I thought, “At least on Sunday afternoons they got to explore the pasture, while I have to sit quietly and read.”

Dad invited the church brother over Sunday morning when the cows’ udders were swelling with milk and they were bawling in pain. Told him to go to each stall, look Bessie in the eye, and explain just why it would be morally wrong to milk her today.

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