Today, the envelope arrived. Each year, with the beginning of Advent, I carefully comb the daily mail for this letter. NEW YORK, NY is stamped next to the cursive return address. I run my finger across the beautiful stamp, a rendition of a renaissance oil painting of Virgin and Child. I don’t want to open the Christmas greeting yet and study it more.

         “Mr. and Mrs. Scott Viars”

The slanted, swirling lines speak of a determination and strength that is not in her hand. They point to a grit from another era. After sixty years with her beloved, she considers to be called “Mrs.” a privilege and honor. I look back at the return address and notice something unusual.

         Roeder

She only used the last name. Has she always done this? I don’t want to tear the envelope; disturb this hope I hold firmly in my hand. Despite my reluctancy, I open the piece of mail and pull out a smooth, golden Christmas card – part of me afraid what is about to unfold.                                      

                                               ***

Ten years ago, I crossed paths with Hazel and Walter after Hurricane Sandy left the east coast in shambles. In late October of 2012, I looked at the news and saw the devastation this record-breaking storm had caused. I felt powerless as I put my head on my pillow at night. What can a stay-home mom from Wisconsin do for people half a continent away? How could my tiny prayers move a God who has the power to stop storms like Sandy? Half a million homes damaged or destroyed. What could I do? What did God want me to do?

A week prior, I had experienced the presence of the Almighty. He had come through in such a way, we could only call it a miracle. I wanted God to do it again and begged Him to show me. But how? This was so much bigger. How could I even find those who needed help?

On November 5^th, I clicked my way through the internet to find somewhere I could start.  
         “God, lead me. I want people to know they are seen and heard.”
There had to be a church still intact and working with those who lost homes. I typed New York and the name of my denomination into the search engine. A long list of congregations all over the area popped up. Where should I begin?
Staten Island. Yes. My fingers shook as I dialed the number of what I thought was a random attempt at connecting to someone. An answering machine picked up. Maybe I would leave a message. A recording greeted me and told me the time for Sunday church service. At the end of the recording was something even better than a prompt to leave my name and number.

“… and in case of an emergency, please contact …“

This was indeed an emergency. I jotted down the number and made another call.

Walter picked up. I introduced myself and explained my idea. He told me he was a retired pastor, an elder. He listened patiently to my heart and intentions. Could he help me find one person or family who had lost everything? Could I take the name and need to my congregation? I would ask our parishioners to write prayers for the family, add gift cards to gas stations and grocery stores on Staten Island and mail the box with the cards I collected. What if only one person or family knew they were seen and heard among all the suffering around them?

He told me of his own intentions to ease the pain in some way. He said he planned to walk the streets and talk with people who had lost their homes. He wanted to pray for them. His voice calmed my anxiousness, my hurried thoughts and words. His New York accent made me smile.
“Now, Heidi, God will do the work. We must be still and listen carefully. He will do it. We will obey.”
I could tell he knew God well. In the midst of this turmoil, he was withdrawing from a sure account of God’s promises. Walter’s hope filled our first conversation and the many we had in the weeks that followed.

 “We will ask the Lord. Let’s pray, Heidi.”

It was the beginning of a ministry and a friendship. Hazel often answered my calls when Walter was out praying with people and taking care of their needs in any way he could. I prayed here, shared my idea and gathered support. Over the next several months Walter and I were able to connect thirteen families who had lost everything with various churches and families in our area. Soon, boxes with greetings and written prayers, with gift cards and monetary help, shipped from Wisconsin to Staten Island. The people I met during that time, though not one of them in person, still encourage me through their stories.

                                                      ***

I unfold the card, not looking at the preprinted greeting. My eyes go straight to the handwritten part.
“Walter went home to be with the Lord this year…”
My tears well up. I strain for the sound of his voice in the recesses of my memories. The way he paused before he spoke. The way he invited the Holy into the mundane, into the disaster. The Staten Island way he kneaded his words. The ways he counted on God to do the work.

The rest of the printed card reads,

It is finished –
As you celebrate His glorious birth,
may you rejoice in the true peace
that comes from placing faith
in his finished work on the cross of calvary.

My heart is overcome by the goodness of God. I hear it again, this still, small voice of God. It prompts me.

“Call her.”

The phone rings for a long time on the other side. I know it will take her some time to get to it. Hazel’s voice is quiet, yet strong and clear. I find out Walter died in February.
She recalls the day he went home, tells me he had “a perfect look of contentment” on his face. We mention his name, talk about his work, his kindness. Some of her memories resurrect from over sixty years of lives together.  

As we are about to finish our conversation, she speaks softly,
“You know, Heidi, your call is the work of the Lord. Today is Walter’s birthday. No one has mentioned him. What a blessing to talk about him with you.”

We end our call, and I place the card back into the envelope. I can hardly process all I have seen and heard in this hour. Deep assurance fills me amidst the grief for many things. I know my Father sees and hears me. As I grab a pen, a brand new Christmas card and blank envelope from a stack sitting on my desk, I whisper a prayer,

“God, show me who needs to be seen and heard.”

Herein was the love of God manifested in us,
that God hath sent his only begotten Son into the world
that we might live through him. 
Herein is love,
not that we loved God,
but that he loved us,
and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.
1 John 4:9-10