I was raised in and by the church. If the doors to our Presbyterian church were open, my family was present. And to make sure the church was fully present in my life, my parents also sent me to St. Martin’s Episcopal School. As a kid growing up in New Orleans, I never had a curfew. However, the rule was that I would be at Sunday school and church on Sunday morning no matter how late I stayed out on Saturday night, and there were no excuses.
It only took one late Saturday night—technically an early Sunday morning—out on the town as a teenager for me to learn my lesson. This night out was followed by my rude awakening by my father a few hours later. My father couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but he delighted in singing over our home’s intercom system when it was time to get up. It was awful. No curfew necessary.
In hindsight, I am extremely grateful for this rule of my parents. Though I still remember how awful I felt that particular Sunday morning.
