Don’t you just hate it when the postman doesn’t deliver your parcel because he thinks no-one is at home?
There you are downstairs, pottering about and suddenly you spot a small card sitting on your doorstep. It tells you that because your parcel is too big for the letterbox, they have taken it back to the main depot where you are to collect it in 48 hours. “Don’t come tomorrow because it will be hiding at the bottom of a sack somewhere feeling lost and lonely amongst the other mail that failed to make it to their destination.”
I stood there reading the card and fuming.
Steam was coming out of my ears like a 1930’s village train departing from the station.
I quickly ran to the kitchen and switched off the grill. My delicious morning bacon will have to wait. I grabbed my coat and car keys and dashed to the front door.
As I got into my car, I looked across the street and wondered which way did he go? I envisioned a comedy scene where the chaser goes one way while the chased emerges from the opposite direction.
I decided on a course and drove swiftly down the road. As I came to the first junction, I indicated to turn right, as that is where I assumed the mailman had traveled. But to my horror, as I looked left, I could see a man in an orange high-vis’ jacket, entering the newsagent to my left.
It was too late to change direction, because a car was coming off the main road, waiting for me to move. He was in my way but of course I couldn’t tell him that.
As I reluctantly began a journey away from the bag that holds my treasure, I spotted two more postmen. It was as confusing as a spy on a hunt being thrown off course by decoys.
I drove like lightening all around the block which I am sure had lengthened in measurement since yesterday.
As I finally approached the same junction as before, there across the road, was a postie stood on the corner, sorting through his bag. I drove up and shouted through my window,
“Excuse me, do you deliver post to — Road?”
As he brought his head from out of his sack, a look of recognition appeared on his face. Without me saying another word – not even telling him the number I live at, he stuck his head back into his sack and brought out a large grey box. He dashed across the road, apologising, claiming that he had knocked twice.
“Well I didn’t hear you at all and I had been downstairs the entire time.”
I thanked him for the parcel and inwardly thanked him for not asking me for any I.D., then drove home at proper speed.
I guess if I had missed the postman altogether and had therefore had to travel to the Sorting Office to collect my stuff, it would not have been a big deal.
But then I thought about Jesus standing at the door of our hearts and knocking loudly.
Wanting to come in so he can speak words of life to our souls.
How many times have I missed the postman? Many. How many times have I missed the call of Jesus? I dread to think. So I am going to make a bigger effort to take time out to be quiet and listen for his knocks so I can clearly hear his loving voice and receive any gifts he may have in his hand.