You Know My Name!

“Hello, Cynthia!”

“You know my name!” my mail-lady exclaimed as I cheerfully waved to her from the sidewalk where I was walking my dog.  Her eyes were wide open, and her jaw hung unhinged.

I smiled and called back, “Of course I know your name!  We met at the post office just a couple of weeks ago!”  (I’m not normally very good at remembering names, but my mom’s name is Cynthia so I had made a mental connection!)

I had been frustrated by the mail service of late, daily finding important mail for someone in another neighborhood who happened to have the same street number as me.  That someone also happened to be one of my son’s favorite teachers.  The first thing we had received was her teacher contract in our mailbox.  She was so relieved when Nate delivered it to her.

Our mail-lady is overworked and frazzled.  In fact, over the past few years, I’ve noticed that there are lots of random mail delivery folks racing through in our neighborhood.  She explained to me that her route is a little messed up due to the fact that she’s had to take time off for a shoulder injury, problems with her foot, and, I learned today, a herniated disk.  She’s had to rely on substitutes, who don’t always pay close attention to the street name.  A few days ago, I received a ton of mail…for another neighbor.  Our mail showed up in our mailbox after dark.

Instead of getting mad, I decided to go Southern.  I walked into the Post Office and asked to speak with the manager.  He listened to my problem with very little patience, calling for the lady assigned to my neighborhood to come and assist me.  She appeared, frazzled as I mentioned before, and I introduced myself to her.  I also asked her for her name.  Then I calmly explained the consistent nature of receiving mail for a different neighborhood in my box.  (I must have really prayed that morning; I’m not usually that sweet!)  At first, Cynthia was defensive and denied any part in the mail confusion.  She blamed it all on people subbing for her.

I explained again that the items I was receiving were very important to the recipient.  I begged her to place a neon note or something similar to alert the sorters to the similarities in the addresses.  She finally agreed to see to it, and the confusion of mail somewhat decreased.  Now, I just leave the other person’s mail in my box with the flag raised for the next day.

I was pulling up to my house today, and Cynthia had just circled the cul-de-sac.  She’s always in a hurry, gunning the gas, and then screeching the brakes, but today she paused next to me to chat.  We talked about how she could use the seat warmer in her car when her back is hurting to ease the pain, and we spoke of how we hoped that she would regain the feeling in her toes again really soon.

My daughter Liz was in the car with me at the time, and after we pulled away from Cynthia, she asked, “Have you invited her to church yet?”

I replied, “No, but I’m working up to it.  That was the longest conversation we’ve had so far.”

I pray that I don’t blow it!  Cynthia is worth more than the most accurate mail delivery in the history of the postal system!  And to think that we’re becoming friends all because I took the time to remember her name.  It really means so much!