When we bury someone we love, we must also bury a part of our heart. But we should not bemoan this loss. Our hearts, perhaps, are all they can take with them.
THE LETTER
IT WAS A FEW DAYS BEFORE Thanksgiving and I was signing books at Joseph-Beth Booksellers, a large bookstore in Cincinnati. The line was long and my escort was getting anxious. “You’re going to have to hurry,” she kept saying. “If you miss your flight you’ll never get home.”
I finished signing and as I walked out to her car I had a premonition to take a paperback copy of my book from my suitcase and put it in my carry-on. I wondered why. I had already read the book. I asked my escort to open the trunk and I retrieved a copy.
An hour later I was on the plane headed home. When a flight attendant asked me if I wanted something to drink, I felt prompted to give her the book.
I didn’t do it. It would be presumptuous, I thought, giving my book to a stranger. A while later she came back to collect glasses and I again had the impression to give her the book. As strong as the feeling was, again I resisted. But this time I took the book from my bag and placed it in the seat flap in front of me. I resolved that if she came back, I would give it to her. A few minutes later she walked directly up to me holding a flight roster.
“Am I supposed to do something with you?” she asked.
There was nothing mystical about her question. My publisher’s travel agent had designated my seats “VIP,” which did little but confuse the flight attendants.
“Are you referring to the VIP designation?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“It means you’re supposed to be extra nice to me.”
She smiled. “I can do that. Now, why are you a VIP?”
“I’m not,” I replied. “I’m an author. I’m on book tour.”
“Would I know anything you’ve written?”
“I’ve only written one book.” I lifted the copy from the pocket in front of me. “Have you ever heard of The Christmas Box ?”
She looked at it. “No. Is it a children’s book?”
“It’s an adult Christmas story. Would you like a copy?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
I handed her the book and she went back to her station.
That was fun, I thought sardonically.
About a half hour later I noticed a different flight attendant making her way from the back of the plane. She was young, with dark skin and black hair that fell down across her shoulders. When she got to my seat she stopped. “ Excuse me, are you Mr. Evans?”
I looked up at her. “Yes.”
She moved closer to me. “Did you write a book that helps people who have lost babies?”
I noticed that tears were welling up in her eyes. “Yes,” I said.
“My baby died.” She knelt next to my seat and began to cry. I put my arms around her, ignoring the other passengers in first class, who watched curiously. Then she said, “A few days ago I got this newsletter from a grief support group I joined. It said that they recommend we read your book. It made me angry. I didn’t want to read a book. I just wanted my baby back. I said to God, ‘Why have you done this to me? Where are you? If you really care, please let me know. Please give me a sign that you care.’ ” Then she looked me in the eyes. “He sent you.”
I talked to her for a while longer, then the pilot came over the jet’s PA announcing our approach. She stood to go, hugged me, then said, “Thank you for coming.”
