Since before anyone now living can remember, the little church I grew up in has set aside the first Sunday of June as “Children’s Day.” Instead of the usual Sunday regimen of Sunday School and preaching, the children of the congregation put on a short program, then everyone retires to somebody’s pasture for a potluck picnic lunch, a softball game and homemade ice cream. It is a ritual that continues to span generations, bringing back families that moved away generations ago. As far as I know, Children’s Day is a unique observance; I have never heard of anything comparable.
Today, my son, my granddaughter and I joined my parents for another Children’s Day. It was a pleasant day, warm but not overly hot. Lots of homemade ice cream. More young children than I have seen here in many years.
I like to think Children’s Day is one of those rare anachronisms that survives our impatient age of air conditioning and inertia. All those little ones give me hope.