Everyone has stories about the post office losing mail or packages arriving late, but what happened to me last week defies all logical explanation.I walked out to my mailbox on a Tuesday, expecting nothing but the usual bills and junk mail. But buried beneath a stack of flyers for pizza and insurance was a small, yellowed envelope that looked like it had been through a war. The corners were bent, the paper was brittle, and it bore a stamp that hadn't been in circulation for decades.When I looked at the handwriting in the center of the envelope, my heart nearly stopped beating. It was the distinct, slanted script of my father.
The problem was that my father had passed away from a sudden heart attack ten years ago.I stood on my front porch, my hands trembling so badly I nearly dropped the rest of the mail. I stared at the postmark: it was stamped June 1998. This letter had been lost in the postal system for over twenty-seven years, floating in some unknown limbo, only to be delivered on this specific Tuesday. The timing was terrifying because I was currently in the middle of the darkest week of my life. I was finalizing a brutal divorce, my finances were in ruins, and I had spent the previous night crying, feeling like I had failed everyone who had ever loved me.
Terrified and emotional, I sat down on the porch steps and carefully tore open the fragile envelope. Inside was a simple, store-bought birthday card intended for my 30th birthday- a milestone I had passed a long time ago. The card itself was generic, but the note written in blue ink was everything.
My father had written:
"Becky, I know you worry about the future and you always feel like you have to be perfect. But I want you to know that I am proud of the woman you are, not just what you achieve. You are stronger than you think, and you are loved more than you know. Love, Dad."
I broke down sobbing, clutching the card to my chest. If I had received this card back in 1998, when life was easy and sunny, I probably would have smiled, said "Thanks, Dad," and tossed it into a drawer, forgotten in a week. It would have been just another birthday greeting. But receiving it now, ten years after his death and in the middle of my greatest crisis, turned it into a lifeline. It felt like a direct message from heaven, a reminder that I wasn't abandoned. It was as if God had seen this dark week coming decades in advance and had reached down to hold that letter back, hiding it in a sorting machine or under a bin for twenty years, just to ensure it arrived on the exact day I needed it to survive.
