We got our visas! And that’s extra exciting because our lost visas were inside our passports. Sure, we could apply for new passports and visas but that takes months. And as soon as we apply for new ones, our old ones become invalid so if they show up a week later, we’re still stuck – just extra remorseful and sore from kicking ourselves. That’s why I’m excited, because now we don’t have to worry about that! And we found them all in the most unlikely way.
Saturday night Janice and I were sitting in bed and, like most conversations lately, this one revolved around Papua New Guinea and how nice it was this time of the year and that maybe someday we should visit. And, as we do during most conversations like that, we checked the tracking number again and was met with the same error message we’ve received probably hundreds of times before.
Now, you may suggest that we double check the tracking number to make sure it was correct but before you start feeling smug and superior, well, it’s not that simple. During all the last minute craziness, our postage receipts went missing. They were most likely thrown out when I cleaned my desk, which has led me to the logical conclusion that I’ll never clean my desk again. Of course this conclusion arrived after I cleaned my desk for the first time in years and thus it was one conclusion too late.
What about digging in the garbage like a raccoon? I’ve dug in the garbage over more trivial things. But our garbage truck had already whisked away all our garbage, erasing any hope of recovering anything. Anyway, there we were with a number that didn’t work and no paperwork to wave angrily in front of the postmaster’s face to prove that our frustration was justified.
We were sitting there and I decided to run the number on Google. Maybe the USPS website wasn’t working? You really start grasping at straws when there’s no hope left. And Google gave me an interesting result. “This doesn’t appear to be a USPS tracking number,” it said.
“That’s odd.” I said. Janice, who was rudely eavesdropping on my conversation with myself, leaned over.
“What’s odd?” She asked.
“This appears to be the wrong format for a USPS tracking number. I bet we’re missing a number or something.” I added a 1 to the end of the string of numbers and sure enough, this time I got a result for a label that was printed but wasn’t yet active. It wasn’t the tracking number I wanted but it did tell me that our number was one digit short.
So now all I had to do was find which digit it was and where it was missing. I decided to insert a number at the beginning of the tracking number. I’d start with 1 and work my way to 9 and see if any results turn up. If not, I’d just move my experimental number to the second digit and run through 1 to 9 again. I’d just do this until I’m at the end of the number. Surely something will come up.
I only went through 10-15 tries before I got a hit.
“Hey!” I hollered. “Look at this!” I had found a tracking number showing a package was left in a mailbox in Coshocton, OH on March 31. We pulled up the history and saw it originated from a Maryland distribution center which was pretty close to Washington D.C. What are the chances someone else had someone shipped something from D.C. to Coshocton and it arrived a day later than we were expecting our package to arrive? Pretty unlikely.
This had us excited because now we were reasonably sure the package was delivered instead of just sitting under a sorting table of a nondescript post office of some random town somewhere in America.
But where was it? We had checked our mailbox a million times and we never received a package. But just to be sure, Janice and I grabbed a flashlight and went outside in our jammies and scoured our backyard, underneath our porch, and inside our garage. There was no package anywhere.
“I bet one of our neighbors has it,” I said. Our mailman has a habit of delivering our mail to other people, which is kind of annoying. In fact, one time our Covid relief check was delivered to our neighbor.
“Tomorrow I’ll walk around town and knock on some doors. See if anyone has it.” It was a long shot but it felt better than sitting around moaning. I know because I had tried that for two days and didn’t like it one bit.
The next day was Sunday and staying home from church isn’t a very missionary thing to do, but we were sick of saying goodbyes. We had said goodbye to everyone and we didn’t feel like saying hello again, just to say goodbye again. It’s awkward saying goodbye in a dramatic fashion and then seeing people again a week later. It’s like attending someone’s funeral then seeing them at Wal-Mart the next weekend. You could imagine how the formerly dead guy would get tired of telling his story, no matter how good it was, of how he came back to life, speculating why it happened, and when his death will occur again. After awhile I think he would fake his own death just to keep the noise down. We weren’t faking our own deaths but we were keeping the noise down because over the past month there’s been a lot of it. Not that the noise is a bad thing. It’s a blessing to have people in your life who don’t want you to leave. In fact, I’ve been astonished at how much fuss people have been making. It’s very humbling. Still, we’re tired of saying goodbye. So we stayed home from church and plotted ways to find our lost envelope.
Janice and I whipped up a list of possible addresses that could be easily confused, like 6th Street versus 8th Street, and then Janice sent me on my walkabout with a quick prayer while she stayed home and emotionally supported me from the couch. Someone had to stay with the kids after all, or else the house would likely be smoldering wreckage when we came back. Janice heroically decided to babysit even though I gave her plenty of opportunity to volunteer for the door knocking job. I don’t blame her. Knocking on a random door and accusing them of being a mail thief isn’t something I enjoy doing either.
First I checked the house that had mistakenly received our Covid relief check. Maybe lightning strikes twice? No luck. A new couple was living there, and while they were very sympathetic, they had no mail with my name on it. No one answered at the second place. The third place happened to have a postal worker living there. She suggested stopping by the office on Monday to do more digging. Wouldn’t hurt, I thought, even though I had already tried that and I wasn’t sure my tracking number was actually mine. At the fourth house I got halfway through my spiel when he interrupted me by abruptly reaching inside his door and digging through a stack of mail. A surge of hope rose in my chest.
“Are you Charles Baxter?” He asked, holding up a piece of mail.
“No,” I said, my chest deflating like a sad Christmas blow up decoration, the kind that my wife hates. Apparently he gets a lot of bad mail deliveries.
The fourth house I couldn’t find. Apparently it didn’t exist. This was confirmed by an elderly lady across the street asking me if I was lost and needed help. I explained the situation and she, too, was sympathetic but had no mail with my name on it.
I found directions to one of my last addresses on my list which was way across town. I sauntered down the road, kicking stones, and looking at houses. Lord, It could literally be in any house in this town. Just help me find it, I really don’t – suddenly something out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. I snapped my head to the right and stared at a house across the street. It had a mailbox which was attached to the front of a house, right beside the door. The mailbox wasn’t that interesting but I did see a large postal envelope sticking out of it. It looked exactly like I imagined our envelope would.
Noooooo way, I thought. It can’t be. There’s no way I just randomly saw it while walking down the street.
The house number was 662. That was pretty close to ours and so I had a plausible excuse if I got caught taking mail that wasn’t mine. I found myself on the porch, staring at it closely and salivating. The address part was turned against the wall so I couldn’t see it. I resisted the urge to snoop without permission. So I knocked on the door and waited. Knocked again. Finally I grabbed the envelope because the suspense was killing me and, really, passports are useless anyway if you’re dead. I turned it around and there on the return address line was “Embassy of Papua New Guinea.” No way! Further down, “Josh Snader.” Suddenly the house door opened and there my neighbor was, peering at me through the screen door while I held her mail and levitated with joy. The thing is that when you see someone levitating with joy, you don’t know the cause of levitation, so it unnerves you a little. Especially when they have big, bulging eyes, a crazy smile, and drool on their lips. Maybe now I won’t be so quick to judge other people I see levitating down the sidewalk with bulging eyes and crazy smiles. I quickly clarified, “I’m happy I found this!” which did little to capture just how needle-in-the-haystack this moment was.
“Oh, is that yours? I was going to take it to the post office on Monday. I’m glad you found it.”
I was glad too.
I immediately called Janice. My phone felt like it was responding too slowly. My fingers were all thumbs. Yet I managed to call her and we shared a moment of shouting euphoria. I’ve done a lot of shouting in my life, but euphoria shouting is the rarest kind. I enjoyed it.
Today we’ll plan our flights with our travel agent. We are going to Papua New Guinea! Thank you everyone for praying. I feel like the parable of the lost talent or the lost sheep has new meaning for me now. Rejoice! For our visas were lost but have been found again.
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