In the mad rush of yesterday’s morning routine, I slipped five envelopes into the mailbox with the rest of our outgoing Christmas cards. We then hustled and bustled into boots and coats, gathered up our things and dashed out the door. Only when we were halfway down the parking lot of Bank Street did I realize my mistake.
Those five envelopes—with nothing more than a first name written on each—had gift cards destined for the caregivers at Doodle's daycare. I searched the house in vain, even though I knew fully well where they had gone.
I tried calling Canada Post, but of course, they could do very little with the strike still going on. As my only resort, I wrote a note to the mail carrier, beseeching that person to please return the items to our mailbox. I tucked it in the slot and left the rest in the hands of the Christmas spirit.
The note could have been blown away; the carrier could have been in a hurry and didn’t notice either the note or envelopes. Or it could have been someone who simply didn’t care.
But when we returned home later that day, there they were. All five of the envelopes, safe and sound.
There is, indeed, a Santa Claus. Thank you so much, kind stranger. Merry Christmas.