Good morning church family,
When I was a boy, my parents decided to supplement the family income by picking up a paper route. My mom and dad had learned that the carrier responsible for delivering the Washington Post to our neighborhood was giving up his route. Dad made an inquiry and – just like that – stacks of steaming-hot newspapers began being dropped off by the curb in front of our house in the early hours before sunrise. There were hundreds and hundreds of papers; all needing to be stuffed, banded or bagged, and then tossed on porches up and down Somerset, Sheridan, Cox, and Rittenhouse.
The route was more than my dad could handle by himself and so my older brother and I were drafted to help out. Every morning, for years, my dad would come into our bedroom and shake us awake; whispering encouragement to us as we stumbled into our clothes and tumbled down the stairs to get to work. Every lamp in our little living room was on and shining a bright light on the mountains of newsprint. The room felt stuffy and close; an inky, chemical smell choking the air. My brother and I began helping Dad assemble the papers – stuffing the different sections into the folds; pausing now and again to read a Calvin and Hobbes strip or scan through the Orioles box score. With the papers all set to be delivered, Dad would make the call on banding or bagging. If the weather was fair, we could fill our sacks with stacks of the Post and fold and rubber-band them as we walked our route. If there was any chance of rain, however, we would quickly bag all the papers before heading out the door. It was a well-oiled operation and we prided ourselves in putting every copy on every customer’s porch, snug to the house and directly under the knob of the front door. If all went well, we’d be all done before the sun was over the housetops and before the droning din of the highway had drowned out the singing of the crickets. The task done, the whole family would gather around the breakfast table for English muffins and raisin bran and then we kids would scramble off to school. I really didn’t mind being a paper boy – except for Saturdays.
Saturdays saw two deliveries from the distributer. We’d get the stacks of the Saturday papers in the early morning, of course; but then there’d be another, very large delivery around lunchtime. The Sunday edition of the Post ended up being a very heavy, thick, log of a newspaper. It would include a number of special sections featuring pieces on the arts and entertainment, there was an expanded in-color comics section, a TV guide, mailers, coupons, classifieds, Parade magazine, and more. Fully assembled, it was so fat that it could be difficult sometimes to even get a rubber band around it all. Well, the distributer would deliver all of these extra sections and special inserts during the midday on Saturday and we, the carriers were given the option of either delivering the early material on Saturday afternoon or including it with the thin Sunday edition that would be delivered the next morning. My dad always wanted us to deliver the inserts on Saturday in order to make sure that we had plenty of time to get ready for church the next morning. We tended to grumble a bit about the Saturday delivery as it always interrupted our playtime, TV time, and cut-up time. It seemed there was always a fat, inky paper elbowing in on our weekend.
There was, however, one good thing about the Saturday afternoon delivery. It being done during the middle of the day meant that the whole family was able to get involved. My mom, two little brothers, and little sister would all get in on the act as well. And best of all, the delivery wouldn’t be on foot but by station wagon!
Our family had a sky-blue Ford Gran Torino station wagon with wavy wood paneling down the side that was perfect for the work. The rear bench seats would get folded down and all the papers stacked and piled in the back. My mom would get behind the wheel, the three oldest boys would sit on the tailgate on the back, the two youngest kids would jump in on top of the pile of papers – steadily pushing the product to the tailgate, and my poor dad would walk behind; directing traffic and maintaining quality control. It was kind of fun to ride through the neighborhood, jumping off and on the moving wagon; our legs swinging from the tailgate. Of course, our parents would be arrested for doing something like this today – but it all seemed as normal and practical as could be back then.
It was on one of these Saturday deliveries that something happened that God has reminded me of many times throughout the course of my life and ministry. It was a hot and sultry summer day in the city; a hundred degrees outside, a hundred percent humidity, and a heat index that left the whole city groaning and dragging. And inside our little band box of a house, it wasn’t much cooler. Everyone in the family was a little irritable and, even though we all wanted to stay home and sit in front of a fan, the Saturday inserts had to be delivered. Metropolitan Washington, D.C. could be one of the hottest, most miserable places on the globe. The air could be so thick there that you felt like you were wearing it. Sweating through your clothes, you’d swallow hard hoping the ringing in the air and the singing of the cicadas would leave you alone and give you some peace. All the parked cars and blacktop radiated heat from the baking sun, making it feel like you were walking in a frying pan. As we prepared to head out on the route, my dad decided we should bag all the papers as there was a chance of thunderstorms throughout the afternoon. I remember the back of my thighs burning as we sat down on the tailgate of the Gran Torino; black exhaust belching up between our legs. The papers we held in our laps clung to our sweaty arms. It was brutal.
Not twenty deliveries in and we were all flagging miserably. Morale was at an all-time low. But then, all of a sudden, on the wind we smelled the faint aroma of steam; a telltale sign it was raining somewhere. Soon, dark clouds bloated with rain rose up in the sky; taking the shape of mountains. The ringing gave way to a whistling wind and the temperature dropped twenty degrees in an instant. And then it began to rain. Big, fat drops were all there were at first; plopping here and there like bombs out of B-42s. But they soon gave way to a driving, slanting rain that came in on us. My mom stopped the car and tossed ponchos to us from the front seat. We donned the musty, bright yellow shrouds and went back to work, trying hard to not get too wet. Soon, thunder cracked above us and lightning sizzled around us; a prelude to the sky opening up and emptying itself of all its rain. We tried our best to avoid the fast-forming puddles and to keep our shoes and shorts dry but it was proving impossible. My mom shouted at us to hurry and my dad did his best to encourage us and keep us on task, but an already difficult job had now become that much worse. I was so frustrated, I could cry.
But then my little brother changed everything. The deluge had turned the gutter beside the curbing into a veritable river and as I ran, head down and papers tucked under my arm to my next delivery, I spied my brother Josh lying flat on his back in the gutter; nearly submerged in the torrent. And he was laughing his head off. Soon, we were all standing still and staring at the sight. My older brother Joel was the first to join Josh in the river followed by my two younger siblings who jumped out of the wagon to frolic in the water. I took the plunge next and then – to everyone’s surprise – my dad tossed his paper bag in the car and flopped down in the gutter with us. Only my mom kept to the ship. We splashed and laughed for several minutes; playing and swimming on the side of the street. It was magical.
When my dad finally marshalled us back on mission, we could not have been any wetter. We tore off our ponchos and delighted in the rain as it continued to fall. We ran through every puddle, slid down every hill, and giggled our way up and down the route. Embracing the trial, its difficulties became our joy.
Dorothy Parker once wrote: “They sicken of the calm who know the storm.” None of us are particularly fond of alarms and surprises. We like dashboards that never light up, inboxes without issues, and red skies at night. But that’s just not how life is here on our broken planet. Many times, when my day goes sideways and my slim margins are crowded with trouble, I’m reminded of my little brother in the gutter. I smile and remember that it’s best to not always try and dodge the raindrops but to sometimes plunge headlong into the storm. I’m certain that, when you do, you’ll enjoy God’s fellowship in your place at the prow of the ship and you’ll be delighted to know that, from there, things can only get better. We’ll have plenty of sunny days over the river – let’s do our best to enjoy the storms today.
We’re looking forward to gathering together tomorrow morning to do our own singing in the rain. We’ll be blessed to fellowship with one another, enjoy communion with the Lord, worship, pray, listen, and learn. It’s going to be a wonderful time together! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!
- Pastor Tate
