Some years ago there lived in an English city a man named Fred Armstrong. He worked in the local post office. His position there was called the ‘"dead-letter man”, because he handled letters and packages whose addresses were faulty or hard to read.

He lived in an old house with his wife, daughter, and tiny son.

After supper he liked to sit in his easy chair and tell his children of his latest exploits in delivering lost letters. He considered himself quite a detective, and there was no cloud on his modest horizon. No cloud—until one sunny morning when his own little boy fell ill very suddenly. Within forty-eight hours the child was dead.

In his sorrow, Fred Armstrong's soul seemed to die as well. The mother and their little daughter, Marian, struggled to control their grief, yet determined to make the best of it. Not so with the father.

His life was now a dead letter with no direction. In the morning, Fred rose from his bed and went to work like a sleep walker. He never spoke unless spoken to, and he ate his lunch alone. He sat like a statue at the supper table and went to bed early. Yet, his wife knew that he lay most of the night with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

As the months passed, his apathy seemed to deepen. His wife told him that such despair was unfair to their lost son and unfair to the living. But nothing that she said seemed to reach him.

It was coming close upon Christmas. One bleak afternoon at work Fred sat on his high stool and moved a new pile of letters under the electric lamp. On the top of the stack was an envelope that was clearly undeliverable. In crude block letters were penciled the words: SANTA CLAUS NORTH POLE. Fred started to throw it away, when some impulse made him pause. He opened the letter and read:

“Dear Santa Claus,

We are very sad in our house this year, and I don't want you to bring me anything. My little brother went to heaven last spring. All I want you to do when you come to our house is to take my brother’s toys to him. I'll leave them in the corner by the kitchen stove…his hobby horse and train and everything. I know he'll miss not having them, most of all his horse. He always liked riding it so much. So could you take them to him, please? And, you needn't mind leaving me anything. But, if you could give Daddy something that would make him like he used to be and make him tell me stories, I do wish you would. I heard him say to Mommy once that only Eternity could cure him. Could you bring him some of that? Love, MARIAN”

That night Fred walked home at a faster gait. In the winter darkness he stood for just a moment in the garden just outside the back of the house. Then, he opened the kitchen door.

He hugged his wife and asked his daughter, Marian, if she was ready to hear a story.

- Anonymous

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A prayer for those who are hurting:

Almighty God, You reach into the darkness with hope, truth and light. Stretch out your strong hand in this situation, hold and rescue those who are suffering. Let your Almighty Love move mountains, cross seas and breathe life into the darkest places, with light that redeems and light that restores. Amen

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Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Matthew 5:4 NIV

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18 NIV

Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you. 1 Peter 5:7 NIV

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If you have a story that you think might bless others, I invite you to send it by email to me (Kenneth Kersey) at godsotherways@me.com.

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