Reverent. That was the best word to describe the house when I got up before dawn. Downstairs the tree was decorated, the manger arranged underneath it. Christmas was on the horizon. It would be hours before anyone else was awake. I sat with a cup of coffee in the kitchen, just me and my thoughts about my father. He taught me what Christmas was all about.
Dad shook me gently. “Time to go!”
I rolled over on my pillow and squinted at the clock on the dresser: 2:00 A.M. Middle of the night for most people. For a milkman like Dad, it was the start of the workday.
When we kids had a day off from school, we had the chance to go with him. The oldest, I never passed up the opportunity. Especially at Christmas.
This December morning was chilly, but the scent of the breakfast Mom was making lured me downstairs. After a quick bite I grabbed my hat and gloves from the radiator and followed Dad out to his car.
First stop, the dairy. I caught a few winks while Dad loaded up his Divco delivery truck. I’d just started dreaming when he was shaking me. I climbed into the Divco beside him.
Dad started up the truck and pulled onto the street, the chains on the tires clanking as we drove down the streets of Pittston, Pennsylvania, Dad standing up behind the wheel. “First delivery coming up,” he said.
I was ready. “Three bottles of milk to the lady in the yellow house with a milk box on the porch,” I recited from memory. “The next house doesn’t have a box. She likes her milk beside the back door.”
“Good job!” I tried hard to remember the details of the people on his route, but I could never remember them as well as Dad.
I leapt out with the milk and hurried to the first house. The lights came on just as I got there. There was something magical about that moment, as if I was watching the world come to life.
I found Dad in a kitchen across the street. The lady of the house was taking fresh buns out of the oven and they smelled heavenly.
“You must try my sweetbread,” the lady was saying. She had an Italian accent, like many of the people in this neighborhood. “Real Italian sweetbread. Nothing better.”
“Delicious!” Dad said. He offered me a bite.
“Like it, Mary Ann?” the lady said.
“How did you know my name?”
The lady grinned at Dad. “Your father tells us all about you kids. Why, I remember when you were born. His first child. Never have I seen such a proud father!”
Dad squeezed my hand. I looked down at the floor, suddenly shy. It was nice thinking Dad told his customers about me. It made me feel special.
“I see you haven’t gotten that picture hung yet,” Dad said, pointing to a frame leaning against the wall. “Let me put it up.”
“Your father is a real help to me,” the lady said.
Dad put up the picture and we moved on to the next house—taking with us a basket of that delicious sweetbread. As we made our way down the street Dad did a lot more than deliver milk. He got things down off high shelves and shushed crying babies. At one house he left half pints of chocolate milk for the children. He knew they were going through hard times.
“It’ll be a surprise for them,” Dad whispered to me.
At some houses people left little notes for Dad in the milk box. Some were special orders for the upcoming week, but plenty of others included personal notes or thank-you’s. One lady left him a Bible verse.
“She likes to give me something to think about each day,” Dad explained. He read the verse carefully and put it in his pocket before stooping to put down a bottle at the next house. “Good morning!” he called through the window. “How are you today?”
We waited a moment, then a frail voice called back. “I’m doing just fine, Frank. I hope you’re keeping warm. So good to hear your voice!”
“That lady is getting on in years,” Dad said. “Her husband died and she’s on her own. I always make sure to check in on her when I come by.”
Lots of people on Dad’s route were older and on their own. Some were so glad to see Dad when we stopped by I wondered if they ever got to see other people much. Dad stayed as long as they needed him, sometimes talking over a cup of coffee.
“You’d get home a lot sooner if you didn’t stop to visit,” I said as we left one house.
“But then they would have no one to talk to,” said Dad.
I thought about all the people who depended on Dad, not just for milk but for a kind word or a friend. He was just about the most important person in this secret pre-dawn world. He was even better than Santa Claus…almost like an angel of sorts. No wonder people baked him treats.
The sun was up when we got home. My siblings ran to greet us. I piled bags of baked goods on the kitchen table.
It looked like Christmas had come already. Cannolis, biscotti, pepper cookies, sweetbreads, rolls… all the best Italian pastries, better than you’d get in the finest bakery. But the sweetest thing was knowing how much love was baked inside for the milkman who took care of the people who made them.
Out the window of my own kitchen, the first signs of dawn were visible in the sky. My friend from down the street was walking his dog. A jogger ran past, her breath condensing in the morning air. My neighborhood was waking up. Christmas was on the horizon. In a real way, Christmas was on the horizon every morning along Dad’s delivery route. Because as he went from house to house, and the lights flicked on, one after another, the world came to life just as God had envisioned: full of the love that was born on the very first Christmas morn.
Read another inspirational story of an earth angel milkman.
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