Faith Works 12-21-19

Faith Works 12-21-19

Jeff Gill

 

The Package – a story

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[This is a piece of fiction, third of four parts, for the Christmas season]

 

Jerry looked at his rear view mirror at traffic behind him, over the top of a pile of large boxes in the back seat sticking up into his usual field of view.

 

He'd just been at a lady's house, whose address was on a package inside of gift wrapping, and learned what he'd been fairly sure of but had to check: the package that mysteriously showed up on his doorstep wasn't from her. She'd discarded the box, and someone had carefully marked through (but not obscuring entirely) the mailing information before wrapping up . . . a pair of old but nicely reconditioned boots.

 

Later, he was going to the shoe repair shop whose tag was still attached to one boot, but first he was delivering a back seat and trunk full of coats to the Salvation Army. The lady he'd interrupted in her day at home needed a hand with coats from her church she was trying to get there, and Jerry was happy to solve her problem in return for her courtesy. He wasn't sure he would have been so cordial with a stranger on his front porch asking about an old box of his, but they'd talked so long they'd decided to exchange phone numbers and continue the conversation another day.

 

Since her church friend's truck had broken down, he was in an ideal position to help out on his way to the cobbler's, but his sedan wasn't a pickup, and what had been two heavy boxes in her hallway were multiple piles and a stack of smaller boxes she'd offered from the garage. Watching traffic over the coats in the back piled high, he changed lanes and turned off to head for the Salvation Army building.

 

A few more turns, and then he drove past the front of the building, parked and hoped he could find some help in unloading. His new friend, the lady whose name was on the box, said her coats were expected, and he should just go in and ask where they should be placed. Seeing a few people heading in a door in the back, he shut the car off and slowly got out, thinking his back was really going to need some helpers to get these coats inside.

 

Jerry walked in the door, and the warmth fogged his glasses, pausing him as he entered. Through the haze, he heard a friendly voice say "you got here just in time, we were starting to shut down the line!" As he wiped clean his lenses, putting his glasses back on Jerry realized it was the soup kitchen door, and the people behind the counter in front of him were setting up a tray of food for him.

 

"Oh, no, I'm not here to eat, I'm delivering coats?"

"Doesn't matter, we're all going to eat, and then we'll all help you: got many?" the cook asked cheerily? Jerry tried to describe what he had as he shuffled sideways along the line, and was swept into a group coming out from behind the counter, each with their own trays, and then scattering out into places around the long tables.

 

The soup was good, and mac and cheese, and he realized he was having trouble telling who was a customer (or guest, it sounded like they were saying about the visitors to the soup kitchen) and which were volunteers. They talked about weather, family, two at one end of the table about hunting and three on Jerry's other side about the Browns.

 

As everyone seemed to finish, the woman who'd greeted him at the door said "Jerry needs some help bringing in donated coats!" and it seemed half the room got up, cleared their trays, and went out into the parking lot to gather in an armload of coats from the back seat and trunk. The job took seconds, and they were done.

 

"Jerry, we serve here every third Sunday evening; come on back any time to eat or to help!" she said, shaking his hand.

"I can make a mean lasagna," he answered and the host loudly shouted "Yes! There's our plan for next month! Give me your number and I'll get ahold of you for shopping to get the ingredients."

 

He was making more friends in a day than he had in the last ten years, Jerry reflected, as he got in his car and finally headed for the shoe repair shop. Now it was late enough it would probably be closed. His errand could wait until tomorrow, but since he was out . . . he thought he'd drive by just in case.

Jerry was really getting curious about those boots now, even though they didn't have much to do with everything that had happened to him. They were just a cause, a trigger, of something much bigger that was changing for him. But he wanted to know about the boots.

 

[to be continued]

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him what you think is up with the boots at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

 

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