Spring semester 1975 is etched in my mind because I got schooled by a girl who was my study partner. We took a college religion class called The Life of Christ. It required a lot of reading, most of which I liked. Fortunately, the textbook for the class was written by a brilliant scholar who was a fine writer. I read the entire 500-page textbook, although it required keeping my dictionary close by. The author had a tremendous vocabulary. When I encountered words I didn’t know, I wrote the meaning on notecards and tried to use the word in a sentence.
One day my study mate saw me on campus and asked me the definition of a word in the reading called precipice. I had not done the reading for the day but immediately answered her, “It’s another word for people.”
“Really?” she asked. “That doesn’t fit the context of what I read.”
“Could be,” I said. “That’s what it means.” Of course, my answer was utterly ridiculous. I was trying to be some big shot and looked foolish. My friend should have insisted I back down right on the spot. But she waited until later that evening when she looked me up and said, “Hey, Mister-It’s-Another-Word-For-People. A precipice is a steep cliff. I’m about to throw you off one.” She had her finger in the spot in the place in the textbook and made me read the sentence with precipice. I felt foolish and instantly backed down. “I’m sorry. I should not have did that to you.”
“You mean you should not have done that to me,” she said, correcting my grammar. “You’re forgiven, but please don’t do that again. You and I both like to learn. We just have to be honest about what we don’t know. Honesty is the most important part of learning.” As I walked back to my apartment that evening I kicked myself and said, “You’re just a stupid kid from northwestern Kansas. You don’t know anything.”
First thing the next morning I hopped in my car and drove straight to the office of the Manhattan Mercury – the daily paper in Manhattan, Kansas – and became a subscriber. Each morning the paper was delivered to the porch of my apartment. Reading it cover to cover was part of my homework nearly every day until I graduated. Columnists like Jack Anderson, Russell Baker and Mary McGrory became my daily teachers. I especially liked Mary McGrory. She was a sassy writer in Washington D.C, who covered politics. Reading her columns I always kept my dictionary handy. If a particular McGrory column inspired me, I held the newspaper in each hand and walked around the living room reading it out loud, fantasizing that I was some intellectual who always knew exactly what to say and when to say it.
When I went back home that summer to Colby, I read the Denver Post, the paper that was delivered to our home every day. Sitting with the paper on our first porch one evening, I pulled the paper away from my face and told my Dad that I liked Jimmy Carter. Carter had declared his candidacy for the 1976 Democratic presidential nomination the previous December. Dad was a life-long Republican and didn’t like Carter’s southern accent. He said, “You’re reading the paper too much.” The 1976 presidential election was the first time I could vote, and I cast my vote for Carter. When I told Dad I voted for Jimmy Carter he harumphed and said, “Why did you do that?” He paused and then added, “Oh yeah, from reading the newspaper.”
“Dad,” I said. “You read the newspaper, too. I just think Carter is the better man.” Happily, my newspaper reading days continue to this very day. Every morning I read online the Champain-Urbana, IL News-Gazette, the New York Times and the news from the BBC. If you were an early morning fly on the wall of my office, many a morning watching me read you would likely hear me say, “What in the Sam Hill is going on down here anyway?” One of my heroes John Stott said, “When you hold the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the next, you will always feel the tension.” And I do.
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