Delivering The Mail And The News

As we were driving past the row houses on the outskirts of the city, nostalgia hit me.
I saw a mailman walking on the streets carrying a mail sack on his back.
In his hand he carried the neatly folded mail for the next house he was approaching.
He wore a uniform, which on this hot day was shorts and a short sleeve shirt.

His shoes were work boots with socks that matched the color of his shirt.
He walked with purpose.
He walked the route that he walks each day.
He knows it by heart.

I watched him as we were at a traffic light.
He walked up on each front porch.
He walked towards the front door.
To the left of each door was the mail box.

We used to have a mailbox like that, I said to my husband.
Mr. M used to deliver the mail at the same time every day.
I would wait for him at the door when I was a little girl.
I liked when Mr. M handed the mail directly to me.

Love those dimples, he would say whenever I smiled at him.
He would hand me our mail.
I felt so important.
Some days I would not be at the door so the mail would go into the mailbox.

I remember the squeak of the hinges as Mr. M opened the mailbox.
I remember the sound of the top closing, unless a large envelope prevented it.
Just seeing the mailman that day brought back those girlhood memories.
Where was the mailbox at your house? I asked my husband.

We didn’t have a mailbox, he explained, putting the emphasis on the word, box.
We had a mail slot in the door, or else the mailman left the mail on the porch.
I pictured the house where my husband grew up.
Mailmen got quite a lot of exercise in those days.

Where we live, the houses are far apart.
Living in the country, walking between our houses would be difficult.
All of our mail is delivered by mail truck to the mailbox by the curb.
My children used to wait for the mail truck when they were little just like I did years before.

They felt so important when the mail lady, as they called her, handed them the mail.
Unless you are intentional to meet your mail carrier, you may never know the person.
When it snows in the winter, the plows often plow in the mailbox.
I remember that happened during a blizzard years ago.

There was simply no place to pile the snow.
We were allowed to put something on top of the snow pile that was in front of the mailbox.
One of our old milk crates was put there.
Our mail carrier put the mail in the crate on top of some plastic so it would not get wet.

I am sure that in small towns, mail carriers still walk from house to house.
Seeing the mailman that day brought me back to another time.
The day after seeing the mailman, I saw something else that made me laugh.
I actually did a double take to make sure I saw it correctly.

A motorcycle was coming down our street when I was out on my walk.
The driver was wearing a leather jacket and a helmet with a dark shield in the front.
He reached towards the back of his motorcycle, took something out, and threw it.
As he approached me, he did it again.

He went by me quickly and continued up the street.
I could hear him on the cul-de-sac.
I could hear him as he came back around and approached me again.
I watched him, this time from the back as he drove away.

On the back of his motorcycle, there was a milk crate.
It looked like the one we used for our mail during the blizzard.
In the milk crate were newspapers.
The newspapers were folded and placed in a plastic sleeve.

He reached into the milk crate and pulled out a newspaper.
He tossed it expertly onto the driveways of the people that got the paper delivered.
I laughed as I watched him.
It was ingenious and practical.

The motorcycle would use less gas than a car.
It is summer, so the weather is conducive to this type of newspaper delivery.
The milk crate held the newspapers perfectly.
One slight turn, one newspaper in hand, one expert throw was all it took.

I was impressed.

I have seen people in cars deliver newspapers.
I have seen drivers sitting on the opposite side of the car, as if they were driving in Europe.
I have seen them steering even though they were on the passenger side of the car.
I always wondered if they had a modified gas pedal.

This motorcycle delivery was brilliant.
It was almost like the paperboys that used to deliver newspapers on their bike.
They would get up in the early morning hours, get their newspapers, and fold them.
They would put the newspapers in their bike basket or in a sack over their shoulder.

People relied on newspapers for their news and wanted their paper delivered early.
Many paperboys completed their route before school.
I have no idea if the motorcycle delivery person has another job.
It was early in the morning and the delivery was quite efficient.

In the morning O Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation. (Psalm 5:3)

We are able to talk to God all day long.
There is something about the morning, however.
There is something about laying our requests before Him early in the day.
Just like the people that want their news early in the day, coming to God first thing is important.

Newspapers can be delivered by bicycle or motorcycle.
How the news comes to a person’s driveway does not matter as much as that it does come.
There are many ways to deliver the news.
Early is best.

There are 1440 minutes in one day.
There are 86,400 seconds in one day.
Yet, God’s Word speaks often about coming to Him in the morning.
God is not a God of time; God created time for us.

However, coming to God in the morning sets the tone for our day.
It puts things in perspective.
God is God and we are not.
God gave us the day; let’s begin it by talking to Him.

Getting out of bed and standing on two feet is a gift from God.
Breathing in and out is a gift from God.
Every beat of our heart is a gift from God.
We should acknowledge God as we begin another day that He gave us.

I am glad I saw the motorcycle deliver the newspaper early in the morning.
It reminded me of the importance of early morning prayer.
There are so many ways to talk to God just as there are many ways to deliver newspapers.
In the morning O Lord, you hear my voice.