Each Tuesday morning at 6:00 a.m. I gather with a group of friends at a local restaurant to sip coffee and resolve the world’s problems. The restaurant is inviting; its nooks and crannies provide a sense of privacy and unhurried reflection. We are the first customers through the door on Tuesday mornings.
If you’re awake at that hour you’ve probably detected the gravitational pull of collective intelligence wafting from our direction… you may want to set your secret decoder rings on “receive hyper-intelligence.” I’m just sayin’.
Truth be told, we struggle to focus through the vapor rising from the coffee mugs cradled in our hands. The conversation is low and slow at first as we acclimate to the rudeness of predawn winter mornings. We thrust and parry with various topics, collectively searching for one particular subject that will find traction with the entire group. We enjoy one another’s company as we slurp strength for the work day. Our conversations are wholesome and (for the most part) meaningful.
We have learned to keep it simple until the newspaper carrier makes his early morning visit. You see, each week, just about the time we begin to hit our stride, we are interrupted by the guy who delivers the newspapers to the restaurant. Each Tuesday around 6:07 a.m. the door flies open and a man enters singing at the top of his lungs, “Good morning, everyone! It’s another beautiful day!”
Our first encounter with the Pavarotti of Papers made us recoil. It struck us as strange—even rude—that someone would enter a perfectly respectable public restaurant singing in such a carefree manner. Like indignant old maids, we leaned into one another and snickered, convinced he didn’t realize there were patrons in the restaurant. His verbose display concerned me. I wondered about his sanity and even the safety of someone so demonstrative, someone so uninhibited as to loudly express a cheerful good morning right there in front of God and everybody.
But after only a few weeks we began to look forward to his performance. Now, each Tuesday, as we settle in, mumble our “good mornings” and hear him hit the door—we freeze, raise our hand in the air and… wait for it… Boom, there it is! He sings out, “Good morning—a pleasant good morning to you all! Good morning all you good people!” He sings at the top of his voice, one arm clutching a bundle of newspapers while the other flourishes in the air as though poised to take a sweeping bow.
We wait each Tuesday in eager anticipation for this harbinger of positivity. We glory in his unadulterated salute to yet another glorious morning. He blesses us. He’s proven himself to be trustworthy. He’s not obnoxious. We accept his cheerfulness at face value, convinced he is sincerely grateful to be alive.
He is a troubadour of truth, a harbinger of happiness, a voice in the vacuum that reminds us to be grateful we are alive. He also reminds me that I may have become too sophisticated to fully appreciate how wonderful life can truly be… if we only embrace it.
I am grateful to this self-appointed prophet of positivity whose simple greeting floods my soul with renewed energy. I don’t know if he’s aware of the little band of men huddled in the far corner as he sings his greeting to the restaurant staff, most of whom stare back at him unaffected. Their lack of response never deters him from his mission. I know I’m the better for it.
The Lord reminds us time again to be grateful for all He provides. Paul encourages Christians to sing “….psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, and making music to the Lord in your hearts. And give thanks for everything to God the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ” (Ephesians 5:19-20).
Tuesday mornings with the singing paperboy have become a staple for me. I don’t know his name, but I’d like to thank him for making my Tuesdays.
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.