The last Christmas gift arrived Saturday while I stood on my porch in the snow and while I shook out the left-over Christmas dust from the doormats and rugs. Just as I was about to head into the house to finish my weekend chores, the FedEx truck pulled into the driveway. Since our walkway is quite long, I thought I’d spare the delivery guy a few steps and greet him by his vehicle. To be honest, I was a bit nosy, since we were not expecting any packages.
He must have been in his mid-twenties and wore a big smile behind his full, red beard. He seemed a kind fella with soft, beady eyes. They squinted when he handed me a wardrobe-size, recycled moving box.
“Here you go, ma’am. And, have a blessed day.”
For a moment I was confused, stood there awkwardly holding this mysterious waste-high package, which was surprisingly lighter than it looked. A swarm of thoughts went through my head. On one hand, I wanted to say something encouraging to the young man, maybe have a small conversation about being blessed, or at least return the blessing on him. On the other hand, I couldn’t figure out what I was holding. Before I knew it, and while I clumsily processed the delivery, the kid had pulled out of the driveway. I headed inside, the whole way craning my neck to see the address label.
“Who in the world is this from and who is it for.”
Once inside, and to my surprise, I saw it was for me – a fifty-fifty chance since only two people live at my address. I quickly grabbed the scissors and tore into the cardboard.
Behind a generous amount of bubble wrap I could see it was a rather tall, skinny piece of furniture. A black wood frame enclosed some cushions, which were covered in black and white material. When I pulled the piece out, freed it from its wrapping, its beauty made me put my hand over my mouth. I knew instantly who had sent it.
A hand-crafted prayer bench.
How memories from childhood can instantly flood the mind when triggered still baffles me. I could almost smell the damp wood from the pews of my small childhood church. To me, back then, the church stood like an enormous sentry in middle of town. I could feel the wood under my knees, see the old ladies, their heads wrapped in colorful silken scarfs, bowed, eyes closed, and faces wrinkled with heavy burdens.
I see them now, their gnarly fingers clenched together as they petitioned the God who didn’t allow their sons to return.
Tears fill my eyes, even now, as I realize that I need to pray, that I don’t ask enough from the God who owns the cattle on a thousand hills, from Him who is capable of breathing stars and galaxies into existence, from Him who made man from dust and returns him to it. What a blessed day it is indeed, when we get to unwrap this last gift, this precious gift of prayer.
(Thank you, D.B.! I can see now that the Lord has indeed told you to send it to me. I am eternally grateful.)
Heidi Viars 
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