WHAT WE CAN’T SEE

3-3-2018

A Facebook friend and I were having a discussion on science vs belief in God.

Now, I think science and the desire to learn more about the creation comes from God, but the argument was about things that can be observed and verified with reproducible experiments as opposed to “faith, legends, myths, and imaginary beings.” I believe these were the words he used.

He sent me a video explaining “string theory” and “the theory of everything.”

I have to say, this little video was simple enough for my simple brain to sort of grasp what it was talking about.
But, the funny thing was, it was all about tiny subatomic particles that are too tiny for scientists to observe, so they observe them by the effects they have on light or sound waves.

I asked my friend if he believed in these “invisible” particles, and he said it had nothing to do with “belief”, but that it was a study in the scientific process of learning what is real and true.

After a little back and forth between us, he politely left the conversation with the statement “neither one of us is going to change his mind.”

That’s when I realized something…he used the word “faith” alongside fairy tale words, as if faith is some ignorant notion of “religion” that has no real basis to it.

“Without faith, it is impossible to please God. For, to come to Him, you must believe that He exists, and that He rewards those who diligently seek Him.”

He is invisible…but not imaginary.

He plants the desire to find Him in me, and then I can respond by seeking Him…or not seeking Him.

When I seek Him, I begin to see Him.
I begin to see how He works.
How my faith grows as I learn to trust Him.
How my faith in Him becomes as real an object as the sun in the sky…how, with my faith (that He gave me. I didn’t get it on my own.) I can see everything else.

My friend had said that he could believe in a creator if there was any evidence.

“Now, faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

I don’t think my friend wants to see.

Yet.

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SHARPEN YOUR SWORD

The atheist’s blog that started the whole discussion that prompted the series “Was Nan Right?” posted a new blog that made the statement that most Christians say they believe the Bible, but they, for the most part, don’t know what it says. They don’t know because they don’t read it. If they read it, then they would be able to see all the contradictions and falsehoods, and, if they weren’t afraid to be honest with themselves, they would realize that their religion is just like all the other religions.

The writer was correct about one thing.

Many Christians do not read their Bibles.

I remembered the before and after of the time I was born again.

Growing up in church, I did not love the book we used.

Frankly, to me it was quite boring.

My friend, Earl (preacher’s son) showed me the revelation story about the dragon and the beast when we were in the 4th or 5th grade.

That was pretty cool.

But overall, I had little interest. I didn’t hate it, I just didn’t get it.

When I was born again, Wendy bought me a little burgundy pocket New Testament with Psalms and Proverbs in the back. NIV version.

I began to carry it in my pocket.

When I was waiting in line, waiting at a back door of a store to be checked in, waiting for Wendy; any time I was waiting, I would read this little book. (“They that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength…”)

When I would read it, it was almost as if there were a light shining on the individual verses.

Verses I had heard hundreds of time, and knew from repetition, suddenly took on a new, deeper meaning. It was like the words were alive. (“The word of God is living and active and sharper than any double edged sword….”)

The words began to pierce my heart, push me to read more and more and more.

It was almost like food to this New Life. (In the beginning was the Word. …I am the Bread of Life…If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, you will be my disciple.)

I was becoming a disciple of Jesus.

The new life that had been given to me had to be fed.

Because this new life was spiritual, it had to be fed with spiritual food. (God is Spirit.)

The Word of God didn’t touch me until I had received the spirit of God.

And every time now that I would read these words, I would grow stronger.

I would want more.

The atheist would pour through the Bible to find “contradictions” so he could convince Christians how blind and stupid they are to believe this book.

I would read through and discover new facets and understanding of this incredibly infinite God, who created everything.

And that He loves me?

How can this be?

I know how weak I am.

And yet, in my weakness, He displays His strength.

How could I ever find His purpose for me, if I didn’t treasure the book He provided to lead me to it?

To Him.

How could you?

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. All things were created through Him, and apart from Him not one thing was created that has been created. Life was in Him, and that life was the light of men. That light shines in the darkness, yet the darkness did not overcome it.”

John 1:1-5 HCSB

“The Word became flesh and took up residence among us. We observed His glory, the glory as the One and Only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.”

John 1:14 HCSB

“Take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is God’s word.”

Ephesians 6:17 HCSB

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WAS NAN RIGHT? ( PART 3: EPILOGUE

So, Nan had tried to instruct me as a commenter on an atheist blog, that I had only become a Christian because I had been taught these principles from an early age. I just accepted them, wanted to believe them, then, after all these years of believing them, I was too afraid of all my beliefs crashing down to question them.

“I was just like you, Randy. I did all the church things , believed all the teachings, I even got born again. But, when I started to question things, I realized that it was all a lie.”

I can’t blame Nan.

After pouring through my journey of being unable to see the kingdom of God in its power, not recognizing all the entrances of God into my life because of my blindness, completely deaf to any words He might deliver to me, I have come to realize that I was dead.

I had a physical life.

I was concerned about physical things, things that made my physical life better.

If I was nice to people, it was because I liked the way it felt for people to think well of me.

If I was in desperate straits financially, I found ways to get extra money by less than legal means.

I lost jobs because of these choices.

One time, after losing two jobs, I had a job I really loved, but I did its again. Desperate times.

I thought I had been discovered and that, when I got back to the Pepsi warehouse, that I would be fired again.

Fear gripped my heart.

“Oh, LORD, please please please don’t let me be fired. I will give you my life if you protect me,” I prayed.

Of course, according to Nan, the only reason I prayed was because some man had told me when I was young, that God hears and answers our prayers.

But, I didn’t know Nan back then.

I did not get fired.

I forgot about the prayer.

But, God did not forget that prayer.

Around that time, my daughter, Chelsey was two or three. One morning, Wendy and I were standing at the door to her bedroom as she was waking up.

“I dreamed about God,” she said.

How cute is that? we thought. “What did he look like?”

“He had white hair and a white beard and a white robe.”

Wendy and I looked at each other. “Did he say anything?” Wendy asked.

Chelsey answered, “Yes. He said, (and she lowered her voice as deep as she could)’I love you, Chelsey.’”

Some time after that, we decided to get back into church.

But I was still untouched. I just thought it was neat that little Chelsey had had that dream.

The first time I was ever touched was when Wendy said, “ God doesn’t want us to have this house.”

The first time I was ever moved by a scripture was two days later, when I read, “You must be born again.” I could not see the kingdom of God.

Until, the next day, when I was born again.

Nan was right. She and I were at the same place, doing the things, but not being touched by the One who ordained the Words that we were being taught.

We were both blind and deaf to the world of the Spirit of God.

We were both dead.

God sent people to tell us, circumstances to guide us.

He touched me so I could hear.

He softened my heart so I could know what I needed to pray.

He answered my prayer.

I am not dead anymore.

Nan was wrong about something.

The things I was taught when I was dead were true.

I just didn’t really believe them.

I was a virtual atheist; I lived as if there were no God.

God says, “I AM THAT I AM.”

My prayer, is that God will open Nan’s eyes (and the others like her)

so she can become alive.

“He that has the Son has life. He that does not have the Son Of God does not have life.”

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WAS NAN RIGHT? (PART 2)

Elaine came home from youth group at the church and said, “ Hey, Wendy was there tonight. I told her you had mentioned her and she said to give her a call.”

Now, I had a mission.

I looked up her address. Back in those days we had actual phone books. Over the next few days, I drove by several times. I had to use a map the first time. Back in those days we didn’t have GPS.

I finally got the nerve to stop. I parked at the curb, knocked on the door, and a stern woman with a jet-black beehive hairdo answered.

“Is…is Wendy here?”

“No. She is at modeling.”

She’s a model. Wow! “Would you tell her that Randy Epps came by?”

No smile from her. I guess she said yes.

We talked the next day in her front yard for a couple of hours.

Two days later, around August 10, 1972, we had our first date, moved in together in Houston in September, married in December.

Because my eyes were drawn to a picture in a yearbook.

Our daughter, Chelsey Morgen was born, we moved back to our hometown, had typical struggles of a young married couple, negotiating the daily life events as they came.

We lived in a house at the edge of town, backing up to a cotton field. I remember, one day, standing in the back yard with Wendy, looking out over the field, saying, “We need to get back in church. It’s good for kids to grow up in church.” I had, Wendy hadn’t.

We went back to the church In had grown up in. I remember snapshots, singing in the choir, sitting next to Art Hill, so I could hear the tenor parts and blend my voice with his, church dinners, but nothing about ever being moved inside by something I heard or experienced.

My sister, Elaine and her husband, John used to come over to our house to talk about “religious things.” Wendy would get into the debate, I would doze off on the couch, untouched. Unmoved.

One day, one of our elders asked me if I would teach the high school Sunday school class.

How hard could that be?

I said yes.

They were in the gospel of John. They had just started, and I would come in at the second chapter of John.

Just to be clear, now, I had never read more than an occasional scripture, had definitely never studied the Bible in any way.

The youth room was filled with couches and comfortable chairs. Very casual.

As I “taught”, I saw the watches being checked, the eyes rolling back in their heads, the dozing off from boredom.

I figured, maybe I needed some help. So, after church, I went to the church library, and checked out a big reference book, a commentary, to help me bring this class to life.

Wendy and I were in the process of trying to buy a bigger house, in a nicer neighborhood, with a fenced yard, trees in the yard. Her dream house. The guy selling it, Gary Frazier, was going to seminary to become a missionary. I knew him from high school. He was two years older than I. Our financial situation, well, it wasn’t very strong, and we knew we wouldn’t be approved for the loan.

Gary said, “I know you are good Christian people, and I am going to help make this happen.” We met with his banker, he agreed to co-sign for us, and I was ecstatic . Wendy and I went to the car, waiting for Gary to come out and take us home, and Wendy looked at me and said, “God doesn’t want us to buy this house.” I remember this. I don’t remember any conversations before, ever that we brought into our conversations about what God did or didn’t want from us.

So, we didn’t agree to buy the house. Gary was very kind. I felt a funny kind of peace, that I did not understand.

Sunday School.

As I began to read the 3rd chapter out loud, for the first time in my life, I saw what I was reading as a story. A true story.

A man named Nicodemus came to Jesus at night so none of his friends would see him, and tried to flatter him with praise of how God must be with him since he was doing these amazing things.

Jesus said, “I tell you the truth, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again.”

Nicodemus said, “What?” (My paraphrase)

I thought, what the heck does he mean?

A couple of lines down, Jesus said, “I tell you the truth, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless they are born of water and the Spirit. Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit.”

Nicodemus said, “How can this be!!??”

I thought, what the heck does this mean?

So, I skipped on down, talked a little about 3:16 (a familiar verse), continued to see the watches raised, the eyes roll, the yawns, until class was over.

“Kids just don’t want to learn ,” I thought.

The next day was Monday, May 8, 1978.

I didn’t know why I was depressed. I figured it was because it was Monday.

I was a route salesman for Pepsi-Cola, and was driving my truck to my first stop.

Something was wrong. “God, why am I so depressed? I went to church, I taught Sunday School. Shouldn’t I feel good on Monday if I go to church on Sunday?” Good question, right? But the next words surprised me.

“And, what does it mean to be born again?”

Up to this point, I was probably in agreement with Nan. (Remember Nan?Part 1?) She told me she had done all the Christian things and had finally figured out that it was all a mirage. I may have been teetering on that brink. I probably could have been convinced of that as well.

But, for the first time in my life, a scripture had shouted at me. “You must be born again!”

I parked my truck, walked into the back door, head down, feeling like I was about to break into tears, and I stepped over a pile of dirt and trash that the floor crew had swept onto the back dock.

On top of that pile was a little “pamphlet” with the words “HAVE YOU BEEN BORN AGAIN?”

What would you do?

Me, too.

I picked it up and put it into my pocket.

I walked across the back aisle of the store and stepped over another pile of dirt and trash.

On top of this pile there was a little pamphlet with the words “WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE BORN AGAIN?”

I know! Weird, right?

Yep, I picked it up and put it in my pocket.

When I finished my work in that store, I got in my truck, started the engine, and took the first pamphlet out of my pocket, read it all the way to the end. There was a prayer. I read it out loud.

I put it down in the seat, took out the other pamphlet, read it to the end, read the prayer out loud, and put it down in the seat.

I gave my life to the One who put the prayer in my heart, because He had already prepared the answer for me to find.

This is the part that Nan never did.

When I looked up, the depression was gone, and I felt like I was seeing color for the first time.

I was born again!

Still am, to this day.

Wendy is too.

All these memories of God sending people my way came back to me after this day when I could “see” for the first time.

I realize now, He had been pursuing me for years.

My blind eyes were opened, my spirit became alive, and I could now see the kingdom of God.

Oh, and Nan?

Well, Nan just left a little too early. She doesn’t have the Son.

“And this is the testimony: God has given us eternal life, and this life is in his Son. Whoever has the Son has life; whoever does not have the Son of God does not have life.”

1 John 5:11-12 NIV

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WAS NAN RIGHT? (Part 1)

i was told that the only reason I am a Christian is because I was preached to when I was young, and that formed a pattern in my brain. “I was just like you,” Nan said, “I believed all the things I had been taught. But, I started using my mind, and I broke free from the indoctrination .”

This could be so.

i do remember, when I was in fourth grade, our church had a
“Pastor’s Class” that taught us the basic tenets of our particular denomination. For four consecutive Sunday afternoons, we met in the preacher’s office. (There were maybe five of us. My best friend was Earl, the preacher’s son. He was there.) I honestly have no memory of anything said during that time.

But, I do remember, at the end of the four weeks, we all walked forward during church, the preacher asked each of us, “Do you believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the Living God, and do you now take him as your LORD and Savior?”

I said, “I do.”

The next week, Palm Sunday, we were all baptized by immersion in front of the whole church.

I felt warm and happy.

Now, I could take communion like the adults.

In high school, I joined Youth For Christ because there was a cute girl that I was interested in dating.

I have absolutely no memory of any meetings, any Christian words spoken, Bible studies. I’m not saying they didn’t happen.

I just don’t remember.

But, I do remember that girl rode with me in my car one time.

She wasn’t interested in me.

One summer, a young man came to the door of my house and tried to explain to me how evolution went against belief in God. I laughed at him, and said (I was so smart), “God is certainly powerful enough to use evolution to make the world and everything in it. Time is no problem for him, right?”

In my second year of college, this guy knocked on the door of my dorm room, and asked if he could talk to me.

He showed me a Bible tract, with a picture of a chair with a stick figure man sitting on it, and a chair with a cross on it.

“The man represents you, the cross represents Jesus . Which one of these pictures best illustrates your life?”

I laughed at him. “I am somewhere between those two pictures. Just because it’s printed on a piece of paper doesn’t make it true.” I remember nothing else in the exchange.

I was dating this Jewish girl on campus, and she wanted to go to a Campus Crusade for Christ thing. We sat in the back. I don’t remember a single thing spoken at the gathering. I don’t remember feeling the least bit challenged. But, I do remember, when they started holding up one finger (One Way, Jesus) and calling out the name of Jesus, I felt like we needed to get out of there. We left. I mocked them outside.

I was perfectly happy with my “faith” and I saw no reason to get all fanatical about anything. I was a good person, and nothing touched me at all on a “spiritual” level. I made my own decisions.

I was just like Nan.

Except, no one had yet convinced me that there was no God. I was taught that from my earliest days, and I never thought to question it.

None of these moments I have described made even a slight impact on my life. I only remember then in snapshots, looking back.

I think, I may have been moving in the same direction as Nan.

There is another defining moment that I remember.

That summer, I went home from college, and I was looking through my sister, Elaine’s high school yearbook. She was two years younger than I, and, in high school I had dated girls from her class. You see, I wasn’t real confident in the dating field, and I figured sophomores liked the idea of dating a senior.

“I looked through your entire yearbook,” I told Elaine, “and there was only one girl that caught my eye, that I might like to date. Wendy Wright.” I knew her a little, because I had been going with a girl during my senior year whose locker was next to hers. Wendy had also worked in the snack bar at the Safeway where I worked. She cooked a mean burger. I remember how cute she was in her Safeway waitress dress.

The next day was Sunday, and Elaine was still going to the youth group at our church. Wendy’s friend, Cathy, invited her to this youth group this day, and Wendy (who had never been to that church in her life) said “Okay,”

When Elaine saw Wendy come into the room, she went over and said, “Wendy! Hi! Randy was just talking about you.”

“Oh?” Wendy responded, “ well, tell him to call me sometime.”

And that was the beginning of a new direction in my life.

But, that is Part 2.

“A sower went out to sow his seed. As he was sowing, some fell along the path; it was trampled one, and the birds of the sky ate it up….The seed along the path are those who have heard and then the devil comes and takes away the word from their hearts, so that they may not believe and be saved” Luke 8: 5, 12

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WE HAVE MET THE ENEMY AND HE IS US

February 14, 2018

Have you ever been reading along in your Bible, and you start to feel kinda good about yourself?

You know, all this talk about the righteous and the wicked, us verses them?

And then, you read something about the wicked, and you think, “Wait a minute, what?”

Yesterday, going through the 5th chapter of Proverbs, I came across this little piece:

“An evil man is held captive by his own sins;

They are ropes that catch and hold him.

He will die for lack of self-control ;

He will be lost for his great foolishness.” NLT

Ouch!?

I thought we were fighting this big war against some huge enemy.

Now you tell me that I am holding myself captive?

But, when I start to think of all the things I have thought I SHOULD do,

and of all the reasons I didn’t do them,

I begin to realize that it is my own nature that makes me wicked.

Really, I do an incredible amount of stuff to keep myself happy,

To make my life easy.

ME, ME, ME….

WHAT CHANCE DO I HAVE IF I CAN’T STOP THIS DRIVE THAT IS IN ME?

Grace.

That’s right, that supernatural gift from God that gives me abilities that I do not possess in myself.

That’s right. No one had to teach me how to lie, steal, manipulate , or feel proud of myself. It just came naturally.

Even self-loathing was a form of selfish pride.

But God, in His great love for me, poured out this grace, this favor I didn’t deserve, and considered me “good.”

Not because I was.

Because I wasn’t.

But because I suddenly realized that I wasn’t.

I accepted His payment for my wicked ways.

I could never be good enough.

Now I knew it.

He sees me differently now.

Not the natural me.

Still wicked, but, hopefully getting smaller, weaker.

The other me.

The new one.

The one that fights the old one over everything.

The one that loves Him more than he loves himself.

That one looks like Jesus to Him.

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Mud pies

The conversation started with a question.

“So, you don’t think it is possible for a Christian to be gay? What would you say if I told you I have been in a committed, loving relationship for over ten years.”

“Well, that says a lot about your loyalty and strength of commitment….”

“What about a Christian that overeats? Isn’t he just as guilty for indulging himself, for giving into his desires?”

Good question, don’t you think?

What about one who is sexually immoral, or commits adultery, or puts some thing in has life ahead of his commitment to God (idolatry), or one who takes stuff that doesn’t belong to him, or one who still likes to get drunk, or high, or someone who gossips, or someone who is still a little bit shady in his business dealings?
Can this one still be a Christian?

Could we be asking the wrong questions?

C.S. Lewis would say that we are happy sitting in the mud in our backyard making mud pies instead of spending a holiday at the beach.

A Christian is one who has received a gift from His creator, a gift of life that goes on forever, that cannot die, that gives him the ability to see God, to see His kingdom, to drop his chains and become free to be what he was created to be.

Why would I want to live in the old way, desperately searching for a tiny morsel of pleasure in the dirt, when there is a path laid out for me that leads to a life of inexpressible joy?

If I am happy with life the way it is, the way it was before I “became a Christian,” then, maybe I haven’t yet received a new life.

Maybe, the questions I should be asking are, “Do I belong to the One who made me?
Is He still changing me into what He made me to be?
Do I want to please Him?
Or me?”

“You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body.” (1 Corinthians 6)

You will like the new you!

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“BE SAFE OUT THERE”

I’m not crazy about this new “goodbye “. It seemed to emerge into the vocabulary in the early days of Covid, when people began to fearfully come out of their houses to venture into this new and dangerous world.

Pete Buttigieg, our esteemed transportation czar, spoke recently about his goal for transportation in the U.S.; no deaths. Admirable goal, right?

Is it, though?

Since when did we begin to measure our lives upon the idea of being safe?

Staying safe seems to mean hiding away from anything that might harm you.

Viruses we can’t see.

Or block with cloth masks.

Accidents on the roads.

Accidents in the air.

Accidents with ladders.

Attacks of red wasps.

Knife cuts.

Twisted ankles.

Broken bones….

Make your own list.

The problem with being safe is living in fear of pain.

Or fear of anything.

Life comes at you from all sides, in all ways, and it comes at you quickly.

You don’t usually see it coming.

Sometimes it will knock you down, take away your happiness, cause grief, sorrow, and pain.

Sometimes, it will force you to look beyond yourself to find some kind of meaning, some sort of answer to the question, “Why do these things happen to me?”

Sometimes, your eyes can be opened to a world of challenge and hope, and in the process of walking through this scary, scary world, being guided by the One who designed your inmost parts and made plans for your future, for your purpose, you will find joy.

Sorry, Pete, I’m not interested in your type of safe life.

I will not be afraid.

“BE BRAVE OUT THERE!”

“Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be afraid, for I am your God. I will strengthen you;

I will help you;

I will hold on to you with My righteous right hand.”

Isaiah 41:10

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BE PREPARED

A guy told me the other day about his boy scout troop doing a regular hike into the grand canyon when he was a kid. He said the memory when he was 12 wasn’t a good one because he was worn out afterward and got fired from his morning paper route the next day.

I remembered the bad memory campout from my boy scout days.

I was probably eleven or twelve, and it may have been my first campout.

(I am realizing now that my memories of that time are more like snapshots than video streams. More about that later.)

I know that I was excited. Maybe a bit nervous, but not scared. I have no idea where we went, what preparation was involved, who I hung around with, or details about the campout.

What I do remember is, during the night the temperature dropped to 18 degrees, and I could not get warm in my sleeping bag, and when it was time to get up, I was miserably cold.

When the scoutmaster found me, my teeth chattering uncontrollably, and crying, he let me sit in his truck with the heater on until I warmed up.

I remember the older boys weren’t acting like anything was wrong at all, laughing, doing camp things around the fire.

The morning air warmed into the 30’s and it didn’t seem so miserable to me.

The Boy Scout motto is “Be prepared.” I wasn’t.

Wendy asked me, “Didn’t anybody tell you how to dress for the cold? Did nobody watch the weather?”

I really don’t know. I don’t remember.

But, this is what I learned.

Layers. Wear layers.

I am 70 now. Still working. When I get up in the morning, I know what the weather prediction is for the day.

I put on layers. Even on weekends.

“How many shirts are you wearing?” Wendy will ask me.

“Well, a teeshirt, long underwear, and this shirt. I will probably take a jacket.”

“Big baby,” she says, lovingly shaking her head.

I prepare.

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LINE UPON LINE….

🎶 I can’t see me lovin’ nobody but you

For all my life

When you’re with me, baby the skies’ll be blue

For all my life🎶

Oh, how I hated that song!

If it plays on your clock radio at four in the morning, you will understand.

I had a Dallas Morning News paper route in Garland, Tx, and, at four o’clock, every morning ( EVERY MORNING, RAIN OR SHINE, HOT OR COLD) that stupid clock radio would disturb this young boy’s treasured sleep.

I was in the ninth grade at Memorial Junior High in Garland, Texas. I had gotten this, my first real job, the previous summer. The truck would arrive from Dallas at Orchard Hills Shopping Center sometime between 4:00 and 5:00 most mornings, and, if you were one of the first paperboys there, Mr. Jack Roland, the district manager, would count out your papers first, you could get an early start, and, if things went well, crawl back in bed and grab a few winks before breakfast.

But, for me, getting up was the hard part. Once up and pedaling my bike to work, I always enjoyed the job.

That could probably be credited to my dad. He worked for Nabisco (did you know that stands for National Biscuit Company?) for over forty years as a route salesman, and I never knew him to miss a day of work, or grumble about his job. He used to take me to work with him occasionally in the summer time, and I saw how fast he worked, how he seemed to know everything to do, how businesses he called on liked him, respected him.

I wasn’t new to the paper business. My older brother, David, had had a Dallas Times Herald route a couple of years earlier, (Dallas’ afternoon paper back in those days) and my dad had put some saddle baskets on my red J.C. Higgins bicycle with chrome fenders so that I could help him sometimes. My brother had a heavy duty Schwinn that was made for stuff like carrying newspapers. It had a huge basket on front, and a rack on the back to keep the saddle bags from rubbing the wheels. I learned to fold the papers tight, triple fold, so they would fly true through the air and hit the porch, learned the classic side arm throw, and even learned to throw from a moving bicycle.

In the eighth grade, my best friend, David Hall, got a Garland Daily News route, and I would ride my bike home with him every day, help him roll the papers (roll, not fold. Garland was small back in those days) and deliver them in the neighborhood around his house. Afterward, we would play one on one basketball in his driveway. When basketball season at Memorial arrived, I talked him into trying out with me for the team. I had played in the Parks and Recreation Dept. League for a couple of years, but he had never played. I could see us playing side by side in our school uniforms, the crowd cheering our moves, our shots.

He made the team.

My name was not on the list.

I think I cried on the way home.

David’s mom asked me if I would take over the paper route while he was playing, so I did.

I made a little money doing that, for a couple of months, but, the thing is, I enjoyed having a job.

Now, as a paperboy, you only get paid once a month.

And you have to collect the money yourself.

On my Morning News paper route, toward the end of the month, Mr. Roland would give me a bill for the papers I was given every day, plus the box of rubber bands I used, and I would have to take my collection book in the late afternoons and evenings up to each of my customers’ homes and collect my 1.70 for 30 or 31 days of delivering their paper, every day, on time, to their front porch. (If I missed the porch with my throw, I would stop my bike, walk to the yard, or bushes and toss it onto the porch. I didn’t miss much, but I do remember breaking a milk bottle, or two. I didn’t stop then.)

Once, I knocked on a customer’s door on a Monday night, I could hear the TV on, laughing in the back of the house. I knocked and knocked and knocked. Finally, Dick Nalley (the sports guy for the Garland News) came to the door, tears in his eyes, paid me and said,”Don’t ever come here again on a Monday night during Laugh-In!”

Okay.

I had about 100 papers every day to deliver, ( a few extra on Sunday, because we had a Sunday only subscription for .85.)

I hated the Sunday papers.

You cannot throw a Sunday paper.

Sunday papers are heavy.

I had taken over my brother’s heavy duty Schwinn, (he had a driver’s license, now), but on Sundays, it was really easy to lose your balance, fall, and dump all your carefully loaded papers on the street.

Anyway, after I finished collections, (I had a nifty bank bag with a zipper to keep my money in.) I would take the money to Mr. Roland’s office, pay my bill, and I would get to keep all the rest.

I made about 70.00 for the month.

I was rich! I remember occasions when my mom would ask me if they could borrow money from me until payday. I would go to my desk, pull out my nifty bank bag, and hand them 1.00 or 5.00 or whatever they needed to tide them over.

“For it is precept upon precept, precept upon precept, line upon line, line upon line, here a little, there a little.””

Isaiah 28:10 ESV

Now, the reason I am sharing this story is for what I see in our culture today. I am guilty as well.

We have become an instant society.

We want it quick, and we want it now.

If CNN is not given the chance to ask the president elect a question because of its record, the world is ending.

We forgot how to build relationships, restore trust.

Because it takes time.

It is easier to make enemies, keep enemies, find others who will share in your enemy making.

The things that are important, that build you into the man or woman of character, are those little things that you do over and over and over again, with little reward, or notice, but you just do them.

Because it is right.

I seldom was told that they appreciated my efforts to put the paper on the porch.

But, every once in a while, someone would thank me.

That feels good.

Occasionally, I even got a tip.

That feels good, too.

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