The Paper Route

Between the age of twelve and fifteen I traveled by foot and bicycle the equivalent distance of a trip from my hometown in East Tennessee to New York, then cross-country to Los Angles and back to New York.  That would have been some educational trip if I’d really been able to do it, but I doubt I’d have learned any more than I did traveling all those miles on the streets and sidewalks of my own hometown.  For about four years, seven days a week, rain or shine, hot or cold, sleet or snow, I walked or rode my bike, delivering the newspaper to customers on my paper route.

In the 1950’s less than 9% of Americans had regular TV service and I’d say that percentage was much less in rural East Tennessee.  Of course, radio was available, but most folks depended on their daily newspaper to stay informed about state, national and world events.  A fairly simple network of trucks and district managers in automobiles got the papers from the Knoxville-News Sentinel’s downtown location to every small town in East Tennessee.  But, the final leg of a newspapers daily journey from the printing press to the reader’s door was the hometown ”paper boy” traveling his paper route.

The days of the “paper boy” have been gone for many years now, replaced first by automobile deliveries, then network television newscasters, 24/7 cable news and on-line news available on your handheld “thingamajigger.”  Ever since Johannes Gutengerg developed movable type and pulled his first printed page off the manual press, time and technological innovation have continually moved us further away from printed news.  But in its day, the daily newspaper was the media king that kept American’s entertained and informed.  The other little known fact is that it also gave one of the richest learning opportunities available to a twelve year old kid.  Here are some of the details of my paper route experience.

The Route

The route was a defined territory of streets or areas of a town assigned to some kid who was responsible for delivering the paper to subscribers living along the route. In the 1950’s, most routes had existed since the late 1920’s when the Knoxville News-Sentinel became the primary newspaper for the Knoxville area. As paper boys would come and go, as new houses were built, routes were sometimes merged or divided and would reconfigure over time.   My route went from the west side of town to the eastern side and covered approximately three miles.  It served pretty much middle-class professionals in the central portion of town, but included blue collar factory folks on each end of town.  I had a few customers who were day laborers and just eked out a living by whatever means they could find.  When I first began the route I picked up my bundle(s) of papers at Howard’s store/cafe.  This alone was a treat since they had a pinball machine just inside the front door.  A nickel was a good ten minutes of diversion if you played the five balls just right and scored enough points to keep you playing.  On a hot day, a good cool soda pop or a “brown cow” ice cream gave you a good boost to begin your route.  The route taught me that I had a responsibility to fulfill, but I could also enjoy life at the same time.

 Customers

Over the years my route had anywhere from 75 to 90 customers.  Dealing with these folks gave me a lot of life lessons I could not have learned from my family.  My family was too nice.  You had to learn to deal with the old grumpy man who wanted his paper in a single fold and placed exactly in a certain place on the front porch.  You got to deal with the family who never seemed to be at home when you came by to “collect” the weekly payment for the paper.  You had to learn to deal with those who would answer the door, but said they didn’t have the fifty-five cents for this weeks payment; “Pay you next week,” they’d say.  And on the other side, there were those who always paid on time, were gracious and kind every time you saw them, and some who met you every day to personally receive their paper.  Learning to meet and talk with all kinds of people was one of the most valuable lessons I learned during those years.

Dogs

I’ve always liked dogs and had my share of pet dogs over the years, but delivering the paper gives you a whole new perspective on dogs.  Your mission is simply to deliver a small folded paper to the porch, door or box of a person’s home.  Not too difficult to do unless there is a dog living there who thinks he owns the property and half the street.  He thinks it is his job to protect it from all trespassers.  Most dogs eventually learn that you are a “regular visitor” and soon become your friend.  There were a few who even after three years never figured it out.  You were still the enemy and they were going to get you.  A dog named Rags was such a dog and gave me my only flesh-breaking, bleeding bite while I was making collections one evening.  The owner had paid me and as I turned to exit the front porch, Rags burst through the screen door and took a nip on my right calf, breaking the skin. 

 

A dog of a personality opposite of Rags lived just across the street; a beautiful male collie named “Flash.”  Every day, Flash would greet me at his house and continue along with me on the route for about a mile or so, then cut back across town and head home.  I distinctly remember one day as I was passing an apartment complex, a dog sleeping on the front stoop of an apartment suddenly charged out towards me.  I caught a blur of motion in the corner of my eye and in the next instant;  Flash was on top of a very submissive attacking dog.  I walked on past and then Flash moved off the dog and joined me on the route.  A humbled mutt crawled back to his stoop and never offered to bother me again.  Flash was the best dog friend I ever had! 

 

There was another ancient male English sheep dog along the route that I fondly remember.  His name was Halsey; owned by a local doctor and named after Admiral Halsey who the doctor had served under in WW II.  I don’t know how old Halsey was, but he was always friendly and liked to go with me along the route for some distance.  He was the typical looking sheep dog look with long curly coat and eyes barely visible.  His only claim to fame was that he urinated on every sizable tree along the route; must have been his age. 

 

I can’t forget my own dog, Nancy, a little overweight mixed breed white Spitz who never met a stranger.  She went with me most days unless I rode the bike.  She might begin, but would turn off and head home when she got tired.  Nancy was always glad to see me when I got home.  The paper route taught me that people can be unpredictable, but once a dog is your friend, you’ve got a friend for life.

Finances

If you had a paper route you were actually running a small business.  You had a bill to pay each week for the papers (product) that you received from the newspaper publisher.  You delivered the product to customers and collected payment from the customers.  You had to deal with disgruntled customers and those who were “dead beats.”  If you didn’t get all your money from your customers you still had the “bill” to pay to the publisher for the week’s papers.  You had to pay some of your profits into a “bond” that the newspaper publisher held for you in a secure account.  You contributed a certain amount weekly until it built up to a specified amount and then the publisher held it in an escrow account.  If you ended up owing money for papers, or disappeared, owing the publisher money, he’d take his money from your bond.  If you ended your business relationship with the publisher on good terms, you would get your bond returned to you.   

 

When I began my route, the Knoxville News-Sentinel subscription rate was 55 cents per week; five cents for each daily and twenty-five cents for the Sunday.   I averaged about 80 customers, so that equaled a weekly gross collection of $40.00.  The paper boy’s take was around ten cents a customer each week, so that gave me about $8.00 profit each week or around $35 / month.  That was pretty good for a twelve year old kid back then and I always had enough money to go to a couple of movies each week, stop in at the local bakery for a pastry or two, save a little and tithe.  My goal was to save for a motorcycle.   My savings goal was achieved in 1956 and I went to the local Sears Roebuck Catalog store and ordered an Allstate Motorcycle.  It was delivered by motor freight to our house and the driver unloaded the big wooden crate in which the bike was packed.  What an exciting day that was for a fourteen year old kid.  I kept the bike until sometime in my senior year of high school and then sold it to my cousin. 

 

Here is a picture of my 1956 Sears Allstate Motorcycle

 

The paper route taught me how to handle money responsibly, how to keep records, pay my bills and budget my personal earnings.  It taught me that you can achieve a goal if you will stick with it, work hard and exercise the discipline of regular savings.

 

 Paper Route Experiences Worth Remembering

The Naked Lady - Growing up in the 1940’s & 50’s you were pretty sheltered from "worldly encounters" compared to what kids are exposed to today.  However, the paper route afforded me my first live glimpse of a fully nude female form.  I was collecting one Saturday afternoon from customers whom I’d missed on Friday.  I walked up to the door of a home on a street where some of my well-to-do customers lived.  The front door was open with only the screen door closed.  No one answered, so I stepped closer to the door and knocked again.  Glancing into the house I could see a full-length mirror just down a short hall.  In the mirror was the full frontal image of the lady of the house without a stitch of clothing.  Apparently she was standing in a bedroom, either dressing or examining herself in the mirror.  Needless to say, I did not knock again, quickly dropped the paper and headed on down the street.  I collected another day and apparently she was never aware of the incident.  I will have to admit that I had seen pictures of naked women before, but not a live person.  In sixth grade, Oscar Phillips, used to bring black & white photos of nude girls leaning across the hood of his car and show them to guys on the playground during recess.  What, 6^th grade you say…well Oscar Phillips was sixteen years old and still in sixth grade.  He shaved, used cologne, and had interesting pictures in his billfold.  He also had a driver’s license.  But that too, is another story.

The National Guard – On Sundays I began the route well before daylight and finished in time to eat breakfast and get ready for church.  One Sunday morning in September 1956 I was delivering papers and was nearing the end of my route.  It was about 7:30 AM.  My route ended on Suwanee Street about a quarter mile from where Highway 27 crossed the old bridge that funneled traffic into town.  I was about a block from where the road split for the business district traffic and the truck route.  Suwanee Street was the truck route and at that point I heard a lot of loud mechanical noise headed my way.  In just a few minutes I saw what was making all the racket; 15 or 20 large army tanks rumbling up Suwanee Street, one after another, with the heads of solders in uniform sticking out of the gun turret and the driver’s ports.  The waved to me as they headed on up Suwanee Street.  There were numerous army trucks following them loaded with more men in uniform.

 

This is almost identical to the tanks I saw on that Sunday morning in 1956

We learned later that day that Governor Frank Clement had mobilized 600 Tennessee National Guard troops to go to Clinton, TN to stabilize the volatile climate that had been brewing since school started and the courts had ordered the integration of Clinton High School.  The governor had also mobilized 100 Tennessee State Troopers and all were descending on Clinton, TN that Sunday morning in early September 1956.  The National Guard and the Highway Patrolmen did quell the unrest, but it took some months and years to fully integrate.  Clinton High School was bombed and virtually destroyed in 1958.  The Black students who attended Clinton High were called the “Clinton 12” and have been memorialized in a life size bronze sculpture at the Green McAdoo School in Clinton, TN.

 



News photo of some of the "Clinton 12" as they walked down the hill in 1956

from their all Black School to attend Clinton High School

The Preacher’s Mama -   I delivered newspaper to old and young alike, but one of the most unique old people on my route was the mother of a famous Baptist minister.  The minister was born and raised in Harriman, a graduate of Harriman High School, but he’d been gone from home many years when I began my paper route.  In fact, he was well established and traveling world-wide about the time I delivered newspapers to his mother.  His mother was a very quiet and reclusive type of person and I never had more than a casual conversation with her in the years I delivered her paper. 

 

But it is interesting how life circles back on you and that is how it was with this lady’s son, the Baptist preacher.  When Becky and I were living and working in Haywood County, NC from 1967 – 1970, I was a counselor at Tuscola High School, just across the highway from Lake Junaluska Methodist Assembly.  Part of my responsibilities at Tuscola was to assist with sponsorship of the school’s National Honor Society.  My co-worker had arranged for a guest speaker for the installation ceremony, a gentleman who headed up the Interpreters Institute at Lake Junaluska.  She said he was an excellent speaker and the kids really enjoyed him the year before.  The speaker’s name was Carlyle Marney, the son of my "old lady" customer from many years ago on my paper route.  Marney was a fascinating character and “shook up” a lot of folks theologically and otherwise during his sixty-one year lifetime.  He was delightful to sit with informally and just talk about life.  Each year, when he spoke at our Honor Society, we had some time when we could sit and talk.  He’d pull his pipe out of his coat pocket, fill it with tobacco, pull out a wooden match and strike it with his thumb nail and begin to puff and talk.   I could connect with him and talk about his mother and his hometown, but he would usually shift gears and talk about the cosmos, current events and eternity. He had a powerful intellect and a gifted way of expressing complex thoughts.

 

Carlyle Marney 1916 - 1978





A Thing of the Past

For me, the paper route lasted about four years and then I passed it on to another kid.  I hope he learned as much as I did and had as much fun in the process.  

 

The last actual walking “paper boy” I knew was my father-in-law, Ben Watts.  After logging 50 years with the Stokley Van Camp Company in Newport, Ben retired from Stokley, but picked up his neighborhood paper route in the late 1970's.  It kept him busy each day and his doctor said it probably prolonged his life many years with all the walking and interaction with people.  

Mr. Ben with his canvas paper bag about 1980
Newport, TN

Mr. Ben has been gone since 1993 and so are walking type paper routes.  It is unfortunate that paper routes are no longer an option for kids growing up in small towns today. There may be some locations where they still exist, but not very likely. In a recent web search, all of the paper delivery jobs I found required the “carrier” to have a drivers license. Not much chance for a twelve year old kid to get a paper route today, but for this twelve year old kid the paper route provided a lot of practical learning that has lasted a lifetime.

I'm taking a week off, so no ramblings next week.

I'll ramble again on June 6th. 






 

 

 

Deliverance

This past year I’ve read several books of historical fiction and some of actual history, all having in common the subject of war.  Tracing down my ancestors, I'm finding that many of them fought in one war or another from the Revolutionary War through recent conflicts in the middle east.

When I was gainfully employed I worked with fellow educators who had spent time in a “declared war,” “military conflicts” or “military actions.”  After listening to their experiences; it seems that no matter what it was called, the results were the same.  People suffered, got killed, wounded or disabled as a result of the conflict.  Even those conflicts where we feel that “right prevailed” there is a lot of nasty baggage folks on both sides have to drag around for generations.

My immediate family knows about war intimately.  My Dad was killed in World War II; an uncle was killed in World War II; while two other uncles served in combat, but returned home.  We’ve got family and friends who served in Vietnam and more recently the Gulf War, Iraq and Afghanistan.  Although the military draft has not been used in many years, both our sons voluntarily joined the military, serving in the Army & Marines.  I am proud they served and grateful they were able to serve during a time of relative peace.

The three paragraph prologue leads me to say, yours truly has never served in the military.  The draft was in full force during my eligibility years and I was chosen, but I did not have to serve; herein lies the rest of this story.  
 

When I reached “draft age” I registered like every other guy and was classified as I-A.  That designation means, I was classified as someone who is “good to go” when they pull out your number.  After registering, life moved forward. I graduated high school, attended five years of college, got married and was in my first year of marriage and full-time employment before I got “the call” from the Selective Service Office to report to the induction center in Jacksonville, Florida.  Becky and I were both teaching school and living in Florida at the time.  The Vietnam Conflict was really beginning to heat up and lots of guys were being called to report for duty.

Although "the call" came at an inopportune time for us, I never really considered not serving.  In our family, that is what you did, even if you didn't like the way politicians were handling things.  If you were American, you served your country when you got the call from Uncle Sam.  Some of my best high school and college friends were also being called to serve; interruptions to new marriages and fledgling careers was the order of the day in the 1960's. It is true that not everyone wanted to serve.  Many opposed America's involvement in Vietnam and lots of guys headed north to Canada to wait out the war.  But, when I got the call, I reported to Jacksonville, Florida as requested and lined up for the physical examination of poking, probing, eye tests, and mental testing along with hundreds of other guys.  We were tested and processed over a two day period and then told we’d be given a date to “report for duty” within the next few weeks.

Preceding these events and unknown to me at the time, my mother, her brother, and family friends back in my home county had been frantically working to get my Draft Classification changed from A-1 to A-IV.  I didn’t even know an A-IV classification existed until I got a call from the secretary of my home draft board back in Roane County, Tennessee notifying me of the change.  I later got a letter confirming the change.

You may have seen the movie “Saving Private Ryan” some years back.  If you did,  you know that story stemmed from the fact that Private Ryan was the “sole surviving son” for his family due to the fact that his brothers who were also in WW II had already been killed in action.  Private Ryan was the only one left.  The military made a decision to bring him out of combat and get him home. The A-IV classification was developed for families with a “sole surviving son” where the father and/or brothers had been killed in combat.  It is also used for those who have completed their time of active duty.  The A-IV meant that you would not be drafted unless it was a national emergency.  The local draft board had reclassified me about a week before I was to report for Basic Training and ship out to Vietnam.

That my friends is what I call DELIVERANCE.  I have never fully understood all the dynamics of what took place or why it took place. Some would say “dumb luck,” other might say the “hand of God,” or “providence.”  For me, it was just plain and simple, DELIVERANCE.

From time to time over the rest of my life I’ve on occasion pondered why I was delivered from serving my country.  Truth be known, when I graduated high school I was ready to join the Air Force.  But, my mother, grandmother and others in the family who had lost husbands, sons, and brothers in the WW II would not hear of it.  The sting of those personal losses, barely twenty years before, was still too real for them to forget.  Many times they’d say to me, “You’ve got to go to college, your family has already paid a price and you don’t need to go.”

Over the years, I've been on several trips to Washington, DC and visited the Vietnam War Memorial.  I especially remember the first time I visited.  That long black marble wall, descending into the earth, etched with all the names of those who served and did not return. Seeing the personal memorials of flowers placed here and there, seeing those standing nearby weeping, seeing some making a pencil rubbing for a loved one’s name; all played on my emotions and prompted the question.  Why were you delivered from this war?

From this writing, it is apparent that the question still lingers in my mind, but I think I’ve found peace about it.  Life is a strange dynamic of events and people mixed in with the mysteries of the cosmos.  I am by nature, a "searcher,” always interested in knowing the “whys” and “what makes it tick.”  When I look for reasons as to what happened to me, I find no clear cut answers.  There are folks who say that life is just God’s predetermined road map.  God knows the route and you are just along for the ride.  I can’t buy that; I do not believe that God is a puppeteer. 

The peace I’ve found about this question; comes from a personal faith; faith that God is real, that God is a part of the cosmos, that He is a part of me, enabling me to play a role on this vast stage in my small piece of time.  This concept is not new, it's been around a long time. Shakespeare used it in a couple of his plays.  Remember the lines from As You Like It?  "All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts...."

I still don’t know why in our roles on this earthly stage some are delivered from untimely tragedies, walking through life unscathed.  Still other, while playing their role, experience tragedy, endure pain, cope with chronic hardships or deal with life-long challenges. 

My peace comes from believing that our human roles are many and varied, certainly not equal.  Our roles emerge from a mix of life events; then are given shape and meaning by human intervention and our own personal decisions. God is not a puppeteer, " pulling our strings" and directing every movement we make.  But I do believe that God wants each of us play our role; giving the very best performance we can muster whatever the circumstances might be.  God is our off-stage director; coaching, offering assistance, rarely intervening directly, always available, encouraging us and hoping we deliver a "smashing performance."

What have I done with my deliverance?   Have I given the best performance I could muster? 

"Wake up Phil, your time is not up,  you are still on stage!"

We're all "on stage" you know!

Now, let’s ramble!

The Bear Bell

If you are new to the outdoors and have not hiked in the mountains away from the mainstream highways, one of the things a novice back country hiker fears is the possibility of encountering a bear on the trail.  What will you do?  What will the bear do? How can I escape?  How can I scare it away?    Are there cubs nearby?  These and other questions plant seeds of fear in the novice hiker’s mind.

When I was a teenager in the 1950’s, the National Park Service said there were only 300 black bears in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park.  On a day hike last summer to the Walker Sister’s Cabin, the ranger said he thought the number was now between 1,500 – 1,800 bears or about two per square mile.  Looks like the bears are doing pretty good; maybe because of a steady diet of hikers.  Just kidding!

Although it is a possibility you’ll encounter a bear in the GSMNP and most other mountains of the southern Appalachians, it is not a common occurrence.  I can remember back in my childhood driving from Gatlinburg up to Newfound Gap with my family.  It was not uncommon to see a dozen or more bears foraging through the open top garbage cans that were routinely used back in the 1950’s.  Today, with bear-proof garbage containers such spotting of bears seldom happens, but bears still prowl around cabins and businesses in Gatlinburg looking for human food scraps.   The truth of the matter is that wild bear would rather avoid humans than encounter them.  Of the hundreds of miles of trail I’ve hiked in Tennessee, North Carolina, Virginia, and Georgia I can only remember about ten times that I’ve actually encountered a bear on the trail and only a couple where I was fearful.

When I began backpacking, someone told me that nobody likes surprises, especially bears.  They suggested that one of the best things to do is make noise as you hike along the trail; whistling a happy tune, singing a song or talking loudly were all suggested as options.  Another suggestion was to attach a small high pitched bell to my pack frame so that it would ring as the rhythm of my steps jostled the pack back and forth.  Since I did a lot of solo backpacking back in those days, I did as suggested and found a small brass bell that became my “bear bell” and remained attached to my pack frame for many years. 

It seemed to work very well because there was only one time when I was backpacking solo that I encountered a bear fact-to-face on the trail.  All my other encounters were at a campsite or on a day hike without the “bear bell” on my pack frame.  As I hiked alone, the “bear bell” was constantly ringing out a different sound, one not common to the woods and one that might be saying to the bears, “Hey bear, better watch out for someone different is coming your way.”

I think the principle of the “bear bell” is also true of the Christian walk.  If the Christian lives by the teachings of Christ in his everyday walk it sends out a signal that others can see and hear.  It’s message to non-believers as well as to other Christians that you are walking down life’s trail in obedience to Jesus Christ and his teachings.  Your actions ring out “clear as a bell” that you live by a different standard than most of the world.  
 

Yes, there are real bears in the woods of the southern mountains and if you venture into the woods you might encounter one.  But I can assure you that you won’t have to go into the woods to meet “bears of temptation, bears of anger, bears of doubt, and many other bears that can cause you trouble.” You’ll most likely encounter one just about every day of your earthly life.  The challenge is to commit your life daily to Jesus Christ and live for Him.  Let your actions and words ring out like a “bear bell”…….. “Hey world watch out, because someone different is on this trail!”

Now, let's ramble!

 

PS  The only bear I every met head-to-head on the trail was down in north Georgia.  I was hiking on a smooth, sandy, flat ridge , headed south at  a fast clip, taking advantage of the easy terrain.  The trail was carved through a laurel thicket.  The bear (unknown to me) was headed north toward me at a good rate of speed through the same thicket.  We met at a curve in the trail.  The curvature of the trail and the thick laurel prevented either of us hearing or seeing each other until we met in the curve. We were just a few feet apart when we spotted each other.  I immediately threw up my hands and shouted “HEY BEAR!” The startled bear immediately plunged off the trail, crashing head-long into the laurel thicket and soon disappeared.  I could hear him crashing through the brush for a minute or two. My heart was pounding and no doubt it probably scared him as badly as it scared me.

The Toilet Paper Lesson

The old saying that "confession is good for the soul" has a lot of merit, and is generally coupled with the concept of sin.  But I've know a few atheists and agnostics with no avowed concept of sin, who must have felt the need for both confession and forgiveness at times.  Although I believe that confession is a good thing, I don't believe it renders its fullest benefit unless coupled with forgiveness. 

 

No doubt, we all do things for which we are sorry and it is often an open confession of such that frees one to become a better person and gives them peace of mind.  As I reflected on this line of thought this week it prompted me to remember a boyhood experience that taught me a painless lesson.

 

I was probably about ten or eleven years old and it was on a summer Sunday morning, between Sunday School ending and church beginning. During that fifteen minute interlude, four of my friends and I decided to play a short game of hide & seek.  Three boys would find a place to hide and the fourth would seek out the others.  One of our favorite places to hide was a seldom used hallway on the third floor behind the choir loft and baptistery.  There were restrooms on each end of the hallway which were available for public use and also used as "changing rooms" when we had a baptismal service.  Most folks didn't want to climb the stairs to use those restrooms, so they were generally free of any people on Sunday mornings.   On this day, we decided we’d hide out in the men’s restrooms on the 3^rd floor.

 

Now in the 1950's churches were not yet air conditioned.  During the summer, the large louvered windows of the sanctuary would be cranked open to allow the breeze from outside to cool down the congregation.  I remember one summer it was so hot that some of the men in the choir bought some big blocks of ice from the local ice plant, put them in the baptistery, and placed some fans on the baptistery steps to blow the cooler air into the choir loft. On this Sunday, not only were the windows in the sanctuary open, but the church custodian, made sure that all restroom windows were opened several inches for ventilation. He also made sure that there was always a spare roll of toilet paper sitting on the window sill of each restroom. 

 

Well, as the three of us boys were in hiding, we jockeyed for position to take a look out the 3rd floor window for the other guy we were hiding from.  During this elbowing and pushing around for position, someone in the group bumped the roll of toilet tissue sitting on the window sill and you know what happened.  It toppled over and rolled right out the window, spinning as it fell and unrolling a 30 foot white tail of toilet tissue, hitting the ground, bouncing and rolling kicking off more and more tissue until it came to a stop.

 

Unfortunately, the area where it landed was the area frequented by a large group of men who had just exited the men's Baracca Sunday School Class.  This was a gathering spot for adult men as they socialized after Sunday School and took a final "smoke or chew" before church.  One of my friend's dad looked up as the toilet tissue spread its Sunday morning banner across this open courtyard. He caught a clear glimpse of three boy's heads peering out the window.   If you think Superman is fast, Mr. Samples bounded up three flights of stairs and had us captured before we could get out of the restroom door.

Now I  don't think hiding in the restroom on Sunday morning is a sin, nor is accidentally knocking a roll of toilet tissue out the window is going to send you to Hell; but no doubt about it, we knew we were in “big trouble.”  There was no need for a "confession" in this case, we were caught "in the act" and we knew we probably had some severe consequences coming, especially from our parents. 

 

But here is the good part, you know what; Mr. Samples just talked to us for a few minutes, pointing out what we should and should not have been doing that Sunday morning; had us go outside and pick up the paper in the courtyard, and said he’d not hold it against us and just keep it to himself if we’d try to do better in the future.  Man, were we ever relieved. 

 

Do you know how good it feels to know you’ve done something wrong or inappropriate and someone still forgives you for it?  I just wish it always worked that way, but it doesn't.  What complicates life sometimes is when you become at odds with someone and you can't figure out what it is that has caused the conflict.  I've had that happen a time or two in my three score and ten and it makes life uncomfortable.  Sometimes I think it's be better to just get "called out" like we did by Mr. Samples and the roll of toilet tissue.  Confession and forgiveness almost come as a package deal in those situations.  I guess sometimes we humans assume somebody knows something when they actually don't.  Personal pride kicks in for one or both parties and prevents us from communicating; confession and forgiveness never get accomplished.

 

Whether you look at this dynamic from a theological perspective or as a moralist, absent the "theos" part, confession and forgiveness seem to be pivotal to good relationships and good mental health in this life and eternal life when we leave the planet.  Looking back, I wish I'd been able to do both things a little better along my journey.

 

Dear Father, help me to remember the words of the apostle John,  "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. (I John 1:9) and the Psalmist who reminds us that once forgiven, he removes our transgressions “As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us.”   AMEN

Now as we ramble, find someone to forgive and remember that "confession is good for the soul."