I think I met an angel this morning

Every weekday morning for the last several weeks, I’ve dropped the kids off at school and then called the JFK mail sorting center. I somehow got a back number I wasn’t really supposed to have to begin with. The first time I called, someone answered. I told him my problem; he said he’d look into it and call me back. Every morning since, it’s gone to voice mail and I’ve left the same message.

Hi, this is Kelly Raudenbush again. I’m really hoping you will help me and call me back. The package I’m looking for was sent from Nairobi, Kenya. It was mailed in September. It arrived at your facility and was scanned on October 16th at 10pm but hasn’t been scanned at all since then. It has to be there somewhere. Please, please, do what you can to find it and give me a call back to let me know the status at ###-###-####.

But, I never heard back. And, nothing on the online status of the package had changed. Mary’s post office in Kenya told her they did their job to get it here and that the reason I wasn’t getting it was because the post office was on strike. I assured her that wasn’t the case, but she didn’t get anywhere with getting them to help. Thousands of dollars worth of goods we were hoping to sell during the Christmas season so that we could send money again to these women, and the package was lost.

I prayed for that online status to change each day when I tried it again and again. Others were praying with me as well. But, we were resigned that it may have been stolen or lost for good. Earlier this week, I wired Mary a little bit of money and asked her to prepare another box to ship which she did on Tuesday. It wouldn’t get here in time for Christmas, but at least we’d have some new things come January.

My mail arrived as normal this morning–some cards, some bills, a small package of a gift ordered.

About an hour later, the doorbell rang.

I went to the door and found a man about 50 years old standing in the rain dressed in a suit–a coat, nice pants, a dress shirt, and a tie. At his feet was a very large box with my name on it.

I opened the door stunned, knowing right away that this was the box we had been praying would be found…at JFK sorting center.

“Good morning, ma’am. I have a package here for you if you’d just sign here.”

“Where did you get this? We’ve been looking for it for weeks, waiting for it for months?”

“Well, it just got here for you.”

“What? But?….Who are you?”

“I’m a supervisor for the post office. I personally brought this by for you since it was so heavy for your regular mailman.”

[who has delivered every other box just like this with no problem, mind you]

“What? It’s still saying on the computer that it is at JFK? I just called about this? I’ve been checking? I was told it hadn’t even gone through customs yet? I’m so confused.”

“Well, I’m glad it got here for Christmas.”

“Well, yeah! Wow…Are you an angel?” [Yes, I seriously asked him that.]

He chuckled then offered to carry the box into the house for me.

Then, I signed, and he went back to his plain old, normal, unmarked car and drove away.

And, I remained in the sunroom stunned and then ripped into the box to see what treasures Mary sent this time.