Every Sunday morning during my eighth and ninth years, my father dropped seventy-five cents into my hand and sent me to the little store at the corner of Mertensia Road and NY 96 to pick up a Sunday newspaper – The (Rochester, NY) Democrat and Chronicle – and a half-gallon of whole milk. That he felt no concern in sending his third-grade son a quarter-mile each way alone says a lot about those good old days when the milk was also much less expensive.
Those Sundays were predictable, yet adventurous for me. As an adult, I now begin my Sundays focused upon another kind of news: the Good News/Gospel wrapped up in the person and work of Jesus Christ. That adventure began during my tenth year -- but that's another story.