The Case of the Missing Mailbox

 Who on earth would want to steal a mailbox?

This is what hubby and I have been wondering, ever since our mailbox disappeared almost six weeks ago.

And we’re not talking about a little hump-backed classic with a red flag and a wooden post. Oh, no. This honker is a huge metal contraption with a honeycomb of mailboxes that serves nearly 20 families on our street.

It all started one night in October when I came home from the gym to find a police car flashing blue and red in front of our house. The policeman was inspecting a huge dent in our poor mailbox, which was lying flat on its back.

“Looks like y’all had a hit-n’run” he said. “No witnesses, so I really don’t have anything to write up.”

Two days later, it disappeared. We assumed the post office had collected its damaged property, but when the hubs went to pick up our mail, a postal worker informed us that some scalawag had stolen it!

The vacant spot where our mailbox once stood

Again, who would steal a mailbox, especially one so huge? Isn't that a federal offense? Is this some new level of thrill-theft, like stealing street signs?

Until they decide to lug another one out to our street and install it, we are braving the Christmas lines once a week to pick up our mail.

This whole saga is making me appreciate postal workers so much more than I ever have before!

Sock Monkey in a Shoebox

Some things come full circle and smack you surprised.

Our homegroups have a tradition that plops Christmas into our consciousness a full week before Thanksgiving: the annual Operation Christmas Child shoebox-filling-party.

Picture if you can, a swarm of college students dashing around Target and Wally World collecting slinkys, teddy bears, coloring books, t-shirts and other school supplies and hygiene items. Each one is trying hard to think like a kid. Now, what did I like at age nine again?

Then it’s back to the rendezvous. Bulk items are parceled out, Christmas paper flies, and someone’s Pandora station is set loud on A Charlie Brown Christmas as the boxes are lovingly filled.

Even before becoming involved in homegroups, I remember filling shoeboxes with my family. Each box had a note from me, including my address, just in case.

One year it happened! A Venezuelan girl received my box and actually replied. Her letter sparked a pen-pal-ship that lasted several years. To this day, we are friends via social media.

I was telling this story in homegroup the week before the box-filling party when one of our new freshman girls piped up.

"I got one of those boxes when I was little."

Every head swiveled to her, and eyes got big.

She told us that when she was eight or nine, her church in Central America distributed the boxes. It was a complete suprise. "I got a sock monkey," she said. "He was so cute!"

She told us she felt so loved knowing that someone she'd never met had given her a gift. 

If you'd like to get involved in Operation Christmas Child, click here for information and fun videos of kids opening their shoeboxes!

To: My Mommy on Her Birthday

Today is your birthday, but I am over 100 miles away. 

If I could, I would wake you up with herbal tea and a walk in the sparkling dawn because we both love mornings. I would clean your house, rub your back, and then let you nap while I made dinner. 

But I can’t, so here—these are a few of the thankful thoughts I’ve had all day about you.

Thank you for being a mommy who snuggled and kissed and hugged freely.

Thank you for putting up with math-induced pouting and door-slamming.

Thank you for singing about birdies and cherry trees and barrel-and-a-heap while the ball bearings squeaked beneath us.

I am so thankful that you taught us for an entire year about China.

And that you made dollies and their tiny fashions with us.

Thank you for reading aloud.You dedicated hundreds of hours to this, enthralling our hearts forever with the beauty of words and stories.

For making us apologize to each other. 

For apologizing to us.

For nature hikes, sketchbooks in hand.

For encouraging dress-up and pretend (even if it meant the whole living room disappeared under boxes and sheets).

For Hershey-bar pie and Swedish tea rings at Christmas.

For all the times you packed and unpacked for camping trips.

For trimming our bangs in your bathroom, swishing the hair bits away with that funny brush.

For thrift shopping,
                bra shopping,
                                and shopping to fill shoeboxes meant for kids in Belize or Bhutan or Belarus,  making Christmas expand beyond my own wish list.

For letting our little fingers into your sewing, your paints, your charcoal pencils and teaching us that art isn’t about the product, but the process.

For loving Daddy and for kissing him in front of us.

For long talks in the bathroom, in the car, and during walks through our suburban streets with our tennis shoes crunching in tandem--talks anywhere about everything.

For treating me like an adult, but letting me be a little girl whenever I need it.

And finally, thank you for not hiding your flaws. This most of all. Because of it, I have hope that perfectionism is not permanent. I know that there is strength in humility, and beauty in admitting need. 

Blessed are the poor in spirit, because their daughters see God through their brokenness.

Happy birthday, Mommy. I love you.