Susan Sanders prayed often during the depression years. Raised in a strict Catholic family, she attended church every Sunday and expected her husband and son to do the same. She believed strongly in the power of prayer, and when Josh, who had just turned seventeen, preferred to stay home one Sunday morning so he could listen to the 1940 NFL Championship, his mother scolded him in front of his father.

“Your father enjoys those football games as much as you do, Josh, but he’s still going to church today, because he knows how important it is. You have to come along.”

Josh, seated at the kitchen table, reached over and lowered the volume on the radio. “Mom, I go to church every Sunday. Couldn’t I stay home this one time?”

Susan Sanders glanced at her husband, waiting for his reply. They were both dressed up in their Sunday best. Jim wore his one and only suit, a pin-stripe dark gray, and a black bow tie. Josh’s mother, a modest woman, wore a plain white dress that hugged her legs and covered her ankles. She added a touch of rouge to color her thin pale cheeks and held a tiny purse between her hands.

Jim Sanders put a reassuring hand on Josh’s shoulder. “The game might still be on after church is over. Those final minutes are the most exciting ones.”

“Dad, praying at church doesn’t help those poor people out on the street, those men who’ve been waiting years for a job. It didn’t help you.”

“Joshua Lee!” His mother seldom shouted, but she was a God-fearing woman who couldn’t tolerate slander against the church. “I won’t have you talk like that!”

Jim Sanders intervened. “Josh” --

His father stopped, as he noticed something on the table, partly hidden under Josh’s arm. “What’s that?” He pointed to a piece of paper near Josh’s elbow.

Josh slowly lifted his arm off the table. His father reached over and picked up the paper. It was a drawing, a sketch, of a young man and a young woman, holding hands. Jim perused the sketch, then showed it to his wife.

“This is very good, Josh.”

“I can do better.”

“Come to church,” said his father, “then you can make it better. And root for those Redskins; they’re the underdogs…like those men out on the street.”

“I’ll root for them, but after church can I go to Vinny’s to hear the rest of the game?”

“All right,” replied his mother. “But be home for supper. We have our own celebrating to do.” She glanced at their Christmas tree; it stood in the family room, adorned with decorations. There were wrapped presents on the floor. “Tonight, we’ll light the tree.”

“I’ll do the honors,” replied Jim, “right after my shift. And to ring in the New Year we’re going to move on up the hill…to a bigger, better apartment.”