My Mailbox Mystery
About the summer of 1976, a mystery was solved. It now seems a small incident but stands out in my memory as a very unique answer to prayer, and proof that God watches over us - and our stuff.
A few days after I was back in London from a two week holiday to my parents in Saskatchewan, I noticed I was not getting any mail. It puzzled me, for it was it was rare not to find something in my mailbox at the foot of my private entrance staircase every day when I got home from my office job as a switchboard operator and receptionist. Nor was it always junk mail.
As a week passed, my disappointment and concern grew.
A second and third week quickly rolled by with my box empty whenever I lifted the lid, peering and feeling around inside. I got anxious; what was happening?
This was an older downtown area, and I kept aloof from most of my neighbours; could an unsavory character be helping himself to my mail? But why do it regularly for so long, never leaving even the junk behind?
I had asked the deaf mute woman in the lower unit to take in my mail while I was on holidays. I checked with her once more and she indicated by note that there really had only been the two pieces she had given me. They had come the first day I was away. She was sympathetic, so I didn’t blame her.
What if, I pondered, it was that long-haired young man on the other side who kept irregular hours and often played his guitar for his dog? I plotted a confrontation.
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