“My First Congregation”
The Maple Loft, my second-floor writer’s den that looks out on our front yard from beneath the canopy of an awesome maple, is filled with books and memorabilia. One piece of memorabilia from my childhood hangs on the doorknob of the closet next to my rolltop desk – a vintage 1960s canvas newspaper delivery bag, the one I carried during my years as a newspaper boy for the Warren (OH) Tribune Chronicle.
We associate the phrase “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds” with the U.S. Postal service. In fact, it dates back 2,500 years to The Persian Wars by Herodotus, a Greek historian. During the wars between the Greeks and Persians (500-449 B.C.), the Persians operated a system of mounted postal couriers who served with great fidelity.
I did, too. The Tribune was printed by noon. Bundles of the paper were then dropped off at locations around the city for newspaper carriers like me to pick them up after school and deliver them. I had one hundred houses along my route on Maplewood and Beechwood streets.
My friend and colleague Gary Straub speaks of preaching as “delivering the mail.” We preachers work on a weekly deadline. Come mid-morning each and every Sunday, we must deliver the mail – in our case, the good news of the gospel. No exceptions. Can’t be late. No matter what may have happened the previous week that took away precious hours from sermon preparation. Whether we feel like it or not. Gotta deliver the goods. As my father-in-law, the Rev. Dr. Dick Taylor, said, “Sunday comes around with embarrassing regularity.”
I realize now the people on my newspaper route were my first congregation. It was my first taste of being accountable to a group of people who looked to me to inform their understanding of the world in which “we live, and move, and have our being” (Acts 17:28). Paul wrote in his letter to the Romans, “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!” (Romans 10:15). Likewise, the feet of newspaper delivery boys and girls back in the day. People waited expectantly for their newspaper. It was the only source of local information back then supplemented by the Youngstown and Cleveland ABC, CBS, and NBC affiliates and the national evening news delivered by Walter Cronkite, Huntley and Brinkley, Frank Reynolds, and Howard K. Smith. We delivered rain or shine. Or, as was the case in northeast Ohio from November until March – snow – lots of lake effect snow to trudge through to deliver the news.
The people on my route, like the folks in my congregations, were in large measure kind and appreciative. But there were a few curmudgeons sprinkled in. If I was late, I’d hear about it. If I missed a house, I’d hear about it. If somebody’s paper got wet or was torn or was missing a section (on Wednesdays we had to insert grocery store coupons and local business advertisements into each paper – a pain!), I’d hear about it.
Whereas delivering the paper on time and in pristine condition was one thing that exposed me to people’s varying temperaments, collecting payment showed me a whole ‘nother side of humanity. I went door-to-door every week to collect. When I began, the Tribune was 7¢ per day, 42¢ per week (there was no Sunday paper). Some people wouldn’t answer the door. Some put me off until next week. Some complained over the amount they owed or the price of the paper. Many sincerely thanked me for my efforts, gave me two quarters and told me to keep the change, even offered me cookies. Retrospectively, that was good training for leading churches’ annual stewardship campaigns. Some would’t even answer the door. Some fussed as if 42¢ was way more of an offering than the good news of the gospel is worth. Many responded with glad and generous hearts.
There I was, a ten-year-old wading through a foot of fresh snow in sub-freezing weather to deliver a dry, neatly folded newspaper to one hundred people. Ninety-five were invariably amenable, understanding, and complimentary. A handful inevitably found something to fuss about or reason to withhold payment. Just like a church. Bottom line: I learned early on how to deal with all sorts of people. It was my first congregation.
Then there were the dogs. I knew the dogs on my route on a first-name basis. I’ve forgotten the names of all but two – Blacky and Dolly. Blacky was the Wildens’ cocker spaniel who had a mean streak itching to be taken out on whoever came within the perimeter of their yard. I had to do that every day, of course, putting me in harm’s way each afternoon as I tossed the paper on their porch or put it in the mailbox. I had no fear if the front door was closed. From inside, Blacky would hear the thud of the paper on the porch or the lid of the mailbox being opened and take a running lunge toward the door or front window, barking ferociously, banging himself at full speed against the door or glass. The days I shuddered were the days the front door was open and all that separated Blacky from me was the screen door. The days I saw the door open, I would get a running start, dash past the front porch as quickly as possible, depositing the paper en route, hoping Blacky would not see or hear me, or, if he did, the screen door would not open upon his impact. Thankfully, it never did.
I was not so lucky with Dolly. Octogenarian Mrs. Stoner and her yappy chihuahua lived across the street and up a few houses on Beechwood from Blacky and the Wildens. Dolly, like Blacky, had it in for all delivery people, me included. Dolly must have had newspaper boy radar of some sort because I could never slip past Mrs. Stoner’s porch unnoticed. Every day when I got within six feet of the porch, Dolly would go ballistic, all four pounds of her chihuahua frame at full throttle, jumping up and down against the door or screen as if on a trampoline – Boing, boing, boing. Yap, yap, yap. Every. Single. Day.
One day, just after I delivered the paper and was walking toward the next house, one of Dolly’s boings opened the screen door, allowing her to exit the house yapping at full volume. Before I could turn back to defend myself with the neighbor’s rolled-up newspaper in my hand, I heard a yap, then felt a pinch in my right butt cheek followed by the feeling of a weight dangling from said area and the sound of muffled yaps. When I turned to look, Dolly was dangling from my right rear pants pocket by one of her upper chihuahua fangs. Somehow, she had leaped to take a bite of my bottom and her tooth got hooked on my pants. There she hung, four pounds of yapping appendage. Thank goodness old Mrs. Stoner was not so hard of hearing that she didn’t hear the screen door open and Dolly exit. She appeared momentarily, saw her dog dangling from my rear end, said something like, “Oh my!” and bent over to detach her pooch’s tooth from its snare in my trousers. She apologized profusely. I assured her I was fine. Dolly resumed her yapping.
I’ve had a few Blackys and Dollys in my congregations over the years, people who barked and growled at me for something I said, did, didn’t say, or didn’t do. A couple times they got their teeth under my skin, were a pain in the butt. But that’s all in the past now and they were a distinct minority. Most importantly, no matter their behavior and deportment, they received the good news every single Sunday, rain or shine, just like everybody else.
I can even smile when I remember them.