My Newspaper Man

My Paper Man

My son hasn’t taken the school bus to get to school. Ever. There’s a wide variety of reasons for that, most legitimate, some not. At some point, I got addicted to the gifts  in driving 180 days every year for the past 10 years. 1800 days (rounded to the nearest hundred). There have been more positives than I could imagine. Here’s one of them.

In August Jordan began high school. I had to master a new 30 minute commute  to a new high school. (yes, I rock.)  After surviving downtown traffic, the road opened up to 8 lanes – and a paper man balanced himself and his stack of morning papers in the middle esplanade.

Earphones in, he swayed to music and rhythmically pointed to every single passing car. He looked at every driver. It wasn’t a mindless dance. It was intentional. He’s blessing every car. I thought. I have NEVER had a paper man before. Ever. I was halfway between stunned that one will now be a part of my mornings and stunned that I couldn’t figure out how to get to him. I just started pointing back to him.

It took me about a week to figure out how to navigate all the traffic, lights, and lanes. Finally, I pretended I was in 8am,  I-95 traffic in downtown New Haven, CT and within a day, I bought a paper. I do this every Friday.

Every Friday we have the same interchange.

“Good Morning Miss!”

“One paper please” and I smile because he has no idea how glad I am he’s there.

I give him the money and he says every time, “You keep that pretty smile and have a blessed day!”

“You too sir!”

And I drive off- unless there’s a red light. Then he tells me the highlights, “Coupons in this one.” Or “Information on the circus on page 4”. One day he told me his name is Gregory and allowed me to take a photo of him.


                   Since August, I have been blessed not because he points at my car. Not because I point back  (although some days, it’s good to remember someone had my back for unselfish good in the beginning of the day).

I’m blessed because he’s there.

His presence remains a monument to stability, community and spirit.

From my second post until now, you know that the one thing I absolutely never take for granted is paper men. Especially when there is one every morning on my route.

Remembering Sandy Hook, CT in NC


Around 9:45, I watched a friend’s Facebook status update read, “Elementary school is in lockdown, what’s going on?”

Then the trickle of comments, “Just got a text, our school is in lockdown too.”

Then the words “shooting” that no one believed until 11:00am.

And everything unraveled.

Parent’s lives permanently blasted through with holes as unforgiving as gunshots.

Communities altered forever. Evil won.

To me, the holiday no longer mattered on some level. Who even cared anymore?

Although I didn’t know anyone personally who was affected, many of my friends live in the surrounding community and supported each other online.

From the news, to the Facebook posts, to the arguments on gun control, Christmas at our house could have been  easily overshadowed this year.

I was already unusually late getting the tree and decorations up.

By Sunday, the 16th, I decided, I needed Christmas back.

So I went to the local Methodist church. A deeply Southern, gothic cathedral where the 15 foot stained glass windows recalled names of founding Southern fathers and mothers from the 1800’s. Some attendees still have people over for roast at night, and live on the land their great- great grandaddy farmed. Their celebration of Christmas had no rival on tradition. I knew the choir would sing from Handel’s Messiah, greens and candles lavished around the pews, and the Moravian star would be hanging. That was going to be my respite from the news.

But I was wrong.

The pastor began with modifications in the program, “In light of the Sandy Hook tragedy in Connecticut, we will not be singing ‘Angels We Have Heard On High’ and instead sing Hymn 214, “Savior of the Nations Come.” The music ached with pungent dissonance and conflicting tones.

When we came to the “Prayers for the People ” section, the pastor prayed for the Sandy Hook victims, families, relatives, community. For healing. For love.

We skipped the planned “Word in Song” from Handel’s Messiah where the words begin “For Behold, Darkness shall cover the earth” to be replaced by “The Light.”

The sermon addressed evil, and light, and God entering into the world while not yet eradicating evil, leaving a mark and glow that we couldn’t yet see in Connecticut, but promised we would. There are no satisfying sermons, but he squarely connected tragedy and Christmas. And that we would be living with both this year.

It ended with a Prayer of Dedication that we “go as God’s people into the world”.  First and second grade girls led the massive choir down the long gothic aisle, and as every year, the choir encircled the church and sang “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.”

And I looked again at the photo on the bulletin and realized the angels were singing… because they had 26 more voices added to them and here they were on the bulletin, chosen earlier in a week that held tragedy.