Do you remember me?
I wonder, as I sit down to write you this Christmas card, if you have any memory of the young woman who called you two years ago because she had received a piece of *your* mail, addressed to a home in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, all the way up in Greenbush, Maine.
It was the oddest thing in all the world, a slim envelope that was supposed to be delivered to someone on the other side of the country ending up in our mailbox. Did no one notice? The only thing that was mistakable was the street address, 1800 Main. I called information, determined to find you, and a frustrating hour later I had your number.
I called, not even really hoping that I had the right number, and your sweet southern voice answered. I wonder what you thought when you heard me on the other end. You chuckled a little bit and wondered aloud at the idea that the postal service had made such a tremendous blunder, but said that everything happens for a reason. I almost think that the letter must have gotten to somewhere in Ohio by mistake and the postal union decided to see just how far East they could take it and find that same address, 1800 Main. Turns out it was the mailbox a few hundred yards in front of a tumbling down old green trailer out in the middle of nowhere’s nowhere.
We chatted about the weather for a bit, it was freezing cold in Maine but balmy in your hometown. Then you told me that you were getting ready to go to a funeral, your son’s, and you reckoned that the mail was a card from someone sending sympathy. Your voice stayed strong, even though I struggled to keep mine from breaking. You told me he was in his sixties, but had lived a good life and loved God and was looking forward to going home to be with him. All the same, you admitted, it was hard to see your children pass on before you. It’s just not supposed to be that way. You spoke very calmly about the Lord, and your trust in Him to do the right thing at the right time, in His own time, and how you believed that He knew what He was doing- even when you didn’t. You encouraged me to keep trusting in God and walking after Him, that nothing was left up to chance, that He would provide and sustain and accomplish. You asked how old I was, if I was married and seemed surprised to hear that I was only 21 years old, and very single. You said not to fret or rush, but that everything would work itself out in time. Someday, you said, the Right Man would come along and it would Fit.
We talked for a good hour before you had to go. It was such a blessing- I don’t know if you ever realized that. I don’t know any more about than that your son is dead, you live in Oklahoma City and you love the same God who has claimed my heart. I have sent you other cards, other letters since then and never received any reply, so I think this will be my last.
I just wanted to write and thank you once more for your words of calm wisdom. I wanted to tell you that I think of you so often for someone I am only connected to by one phone call and a misdirected card. I also wanted to tell you that the Right Man *has* indeed come along. I have been married to him for a week now- the best week of my life to be sure. Looking back on our story- short as it is- it seems to be a length of incredible events strung together by coincidence and chance, but I know better- and I know you would agree with me could you read this letter. A card gets delivered to the right street address thousands of miles away from the right town; a young woman gets ideas about moving East to find adventure; a young man decides to switch from mechanics to law enforcement and somehow ends up shopping for snow shovels in a small town hardware store where he meets the pioneering gal. They fall in love. They get married. It sounds more like a script from a movie than anyone’s actual life.
Well. It’s my actual life. I am spending this Christmas with the Love of My Life. The Right One. We bought our tree today and there it stands in our living room looking as surprised and pleased as I am. And I just wanted you to know.
May God bless you and yours.