Special Delivery

Our mail was delivered by whim – at least that was the explanation around the office for the often-fruitless journeys down to our box in the lobby. Nearly every week it seemed there was a new letter carrier. Some days the mail came early - before noon; other days it came long after dark when we’d all given up and headed for home. Some days it didn’t arrive at all. Those were the days we decided that no one at the post office was willing to bother.

It wasn’t like we were in some god-forsaken spot. This postal aberration occurred week after week in the midst of one of the most prestigious streets in the world. That only added insult to injury.

Nothing made a difference. Calls to the post office didn’t help. Letters – well, really! We grumbled and complained and put up with it.

Most days it didn’t matter much. Just an annoyance. Other days - when one was expecting something urgent - it was maddening. This particular day I was still waiting for material I had to have for a conference starting later that same night. It was Friday, end of a long hot week, my last chance to get the materials before leaving to board a plane.

The heat had already over-powered the building’s antiquated air conditioning. The security guard had made matters worse by opening the large glass doors facing the street. Instead of allowing a breeze as he intended, the sweltering outside air soon filled every inch of space. It was hard to breathe. People were cranky, sweaty, miserable.

My third trip back downstairs. Nothing yet. John, the guy from the back office near the parking lot, paced the rows of numbered mail slots back and forth as agitated as a great caged cat. Susan from upstairs loitered angrily by the large plastic planter. Two men from the accounting firm fidgeted, looked from their wrists to the door and back. They circled uneasily. “I might as well wait,” I thought, and joined the restless pack.

Finally we heard the groaning of the mail cart in the basement being loaded onto the elevator. The doors eventually yawned open to reveal a young Hispanic guy awkwardly trying to maneuver the heavy, battered cart. He shoved and dragged it toward the back corner where the rows of mailboxes stood. We followed like a band of starving dogs. He went around to the back of the boxes to unlock the access panel at the rear. We gathered expectantly to claim our long-awaited quarry but instead of hearing the mail being places into each space, we heard him shuffling through layer upon layer of unsorted magazines and postcards, correspondence and cardboard, clear-windowed envelopes, advertisements, newspapers.

“Oh my God, it’s not even sorted!” someone exclaimed angrily. “Geeze!” another snorted with disgust. Heads shook. I joined in. Enough already.

We backed off to re-group - retreated to a larger section of the entrance as a unit. We circled and snorted, sighed and swayed, now more like sharks than like hungry dogs or tenants. Some folks gave up, peeled off, returned to their offices. Others descended into the lobby to merge with those of us waiting. Minutes dragged on. Tempers rose as we swirled in a cauldron of sweat and frustration just at the edge of his efforts. Methodically, one by one he pulled out each item, held it up, tried to read the name and carefully attempted to figure out where it belonged in the maze of slots before him. His shirt darkened with perspiration. Several people approached to retrieve their mail only to discover he wasn’t ready to release the newly sorted piles just beyond their reach.

Suddenly the mood turned dark. Ugly. The woman across the hall rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christ!” the guy on six mumbled. “Stupid Mexican!” another added, “he doesn’t read English!” “Damn it!” In a flash I found myself wanting to hurt him. Eager to humiliate him. Enjoying the sense of cruelty-born, self-righteous certainty of superiority. Horrified, I caught myself. What the heck?!  The crowd suddenly, silently, had become a mob, hungry, eager to bring him down. The sweet smell of blood was in the water, in the air. I could feel it. It was thrilling, intoxicating.  My heart pounded.

The young man felt it too. He looked down quickly trying to disappear into the mess before him. His hands began to tremble visibly. His movement became hesitant, restricted. His shoulders tightened. His breathing grew shallow, guarded.

My mind raced. God, please help me. This is how people get killed.

I call myself a Christian. I needed to do something, something NOW! He couldn’t save himself. It was too late. I knew I had to do something. And I was terrified. What do I do? Where do I find the strength? Lord, help me find the strength. What would Jesus do?

“Hey,” I said awkwardly, horrified, finding myself taking a large stride to stand beside him, What are you doing?! Are you crazy? I thought. “You’re new here. What’s your name?” Make contact. Join him. Make him real. He mumbled something down into the piles. God help me! I kept going, afraid to stop. “This sure is a mess you’ve stepped into. You’re doin’ a great job,” I continued hoping he understood, hoping that I sounded far more confident than I felt.  I deliberately put my hand on his arm. Smiled. Taking a deep breath, I continued, “It IS hard. You’re getting it”… He raised his head slightly and looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “You’re doing fine,” I repeated firmly, afraid to look at the crowd, nodding for emphasis, praying that somehow he understood my words – praying frantically that this would work.

As suddenly as it locked in, the spell broke. Life returned. People shrugged it off and went outside for a stroll or a smoke or to the small coffee shop for a cold drink.

Once it felt safe I stepped back. “You’re doing fine.” I said slowly smiling. “You’ll be okay.” This time his eyes met mine. He nodded slightly. I waited for a moment and then turned to go and let him finish his job unfettered.

Later upstairs in my office as I was gathering things together to leave for the airport there was a quiet knock at the door. I opened it to find him standing there - my mail in his outstretched hand. “The guard,” he said haltingly, “he told me you are here?”

“Yes.”

“I come today,” he said slowly picking his words out carefully, “ to help my friend. He is sick. He says no one comes to bring you the mail. I say it is okay: I will help.”

Dear God! I thought awash in a wave of tears at the kindness and generosity of this young  man. I stood unable to speak, ashamed, and at the same time, deeply sobered by the violence, the disgust, the arrogance that were mine, that I had found untamed within me.

“I come, Lady, “ he continued, “to say ‘thank you.’”

“Oh my God, no. No, thank YOU. “ I said clumsily. “You did a very good and very special thing today. You helped all of us. And you helped your friend.”

He smiled back and then turned to go.

“Wait” I said stopping him. “Earlier,..” I shrugged an apology, “earlier - I am so sorry - I didn’t get your name. Your name?”

“Jesus,” he replied with a smile. Then he slipped out the door and was gone.

I stood there alone in the empty office. Of course. I gathered my things and headed out the door. All the way down in the elevator I chuckled out-loud, flooded with relief and gratitude, knowing just how close to the abyss I’d come.

“Jesus.” Of course…