In a family with seven children, times when we were all together were often scarce.

But there was one meal that was sacred, one meal we did not miss no matter the reason.

Sunday dinner.

But first, there was Sunday Mass.

My dad “found religion” when I was in high school and our church habits changed.

Before he saw the light, we sat on the back row and Dad snored through most of the service.

After his religious weekend, all nine of us had to sit on the front row. This wouldn’t have been so bad except we were always late.

For a teenager, that march up the aisle was the walk of shame. Add to that humiliation was that my dad insisted on singing every single hymn as loud as he could.

Dad couldn’t carry a tune to save his soul.

So there we were, late, on the front row with dad belting out “Here I Am Lord” for the angels to hear, although they probably had no problem picking him out of the congregation.

Once home, we’d set the table while Mom made the salad dressing. The menu didn’t change much – roast, white rice, gravy, mashed potatoes, salad and corn. No problem – our Mom’s a fabulous cook.

We’d say grace and pass the food to the right – Dad’s rule – and talk about everything under the sun while we ate.

Sometimes we’d talk about what was going on at school or sports but the conversation usually turned to politics.

We all had different views on the world, especially when we got to be teenagers.

Dad believed every word out of Archie Bunker’s mouth was the gospel truth.

We thought Archie Bunker was an idiot.

Dad thought voted for Richard Nixon.

Nixon single handedly shattered my belief that the president was right up there next to the pope and The Beatles.

We’d all chime in with our opinion. Some, like our sister Diane, loved to argue for the sake of argument.

Neither she nor my dad ever took their often loud disagreements personally. To them, those debates were verbal and intellectual exercise.

Our dad ended the discussion with his trade-mark wrap-it-up opinion.

“It’s a communist plot,” he’d say.

We’d throw our hands up in exasperation and took care of the dishes and leftovers, each one seamlessly taking on a task, from washing pots and pans to sweeping the floor, until the kitchen was clean.

Those Sunday dinners taught me invaluable lessons.

Although we differed in our views, we still allowed the other person to state their opinion, and we respected their right to have that opinion.

My incredibly smart siblings made me look at thorny issues in a different light.

Sometimes I changed my mind. Sometimes I stuck with what I thought. But I’m so glad they made me look at life from a different angle.

Social media and the opportunity to rant from a keyboard instead of face to face has turned civilized debate into a blood sport.

And that’s a shame.

Making political or religious disagreements personal doesn’t allow our minds to see an issue through a different lens and causes rifts in the family.

It’s sad how many relationships are splintered because of this unwillingness to honor another person’s point of view.

Our political and religious views are one small sliver of the pie that makes up each and every one of us. In our determination to be right, we forget that our right-wing friend is also an incredible artist, writer or gardener.

We need to remember our differences don’t make us enemies.

They just make us different, a message learned over hurried Sunday mornings and passing around a platter of pot roast.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.