My family is into racing. No, not the Nascar kind of racing. Actual running. Every single day.
Well, except for Sundays.
Aren’t you impressed? I’ll bet you had no idea we were such a fit family.
We would probably be more fit if the race were a little longer. But our racetrack is only the distance between our front door and our mailbox.
Every day, when the mail truck comes, every person in my household – who happens to be present – races to the mailbox to retrieve the mail. Sometimes, out of gracious generosity, I let the kids win. But most days, I don’t have to let them. They just beat me.
That is why I have, on occasion, resorted to cheating. If I spy the mail truck coming up the road, I have been known to send the kids to their rooms with some command. “Clean your room!” “Read a book!”
The truth is, I just want to get the mail.
I have no idea why we have such a fascination with those little envelopes that land in our mailbox. Ninety percent of the time, it is just bills or advertisements. Every once in a while, we’ll get a catalogue, which is worth about ten minutes of entertainment. Sometimes, there will be a check, which always brings a smile.
But once in a blue moon, there will be a treasure of great price. A pearl.
An actual, honest-to-goodness letter.
On those days, there is dancing and great rejoicing in the Brumbaugh household. “Who is it for?” We all ask. “Is it for me?”
Usually, it’s a card from Nana, addressed to one of the kids. Sometimes, it’s a thank-you note or a family newsletter from some distant relative. And rarely – Oh Happy Day! – rarely it is a personal letter from a friend.
It’s funny, really. I don’t know why we get so excited about the mail. After all, it comes six days a week. And usually it’s nothing to get excited about.
Yet, we all hope and pray for that moment when there will be an actual card or letter with our name on it. That small rectangular envelope is a reminder that, to someone, somewhere, we matter. We are important. Someone sees us, knows us, and cares enough to spend a stamp on us.
We all want to be noticed, don’t we? We all want to be important to someone. And a simple letter in the mailbox assures us that no, we are not invisible. Someone knows we exist. Someone cares.
But whether or not we ever get an actual letter in our mailbox, there is One who notices us. We are important to Him. He sees us, and He cares.
Though He has been known, on occasion, to use the U.S. Postal System, He usually sends His love notes in the forms of blooming flowers and singing birds and unexpected smiles from our friends and loved ones. He gives us reminders, every single day, of how much He loves us.
And we don’t have to scramble or race for His attention, either. He sends individual, personalized messages to each and every one of us. Messages of love and comfort and encouragement, each one tailor-made and specially delivered just for you. Just for me.
So from now on, I think I’ll make it a point to watch as diligently for the delivery of His blessings as I do for the mail truck. And I’ll even encourage the kids to watch with me.
Gen. 16:13 “You are the God who sees me.”