With work almost finished for the day, I was looking forward to getting home and relaxing. Maybe crocheting some rows on the afghan I was making. Funny, I still don’t know who it’s for, I thought, turning to one of my last tasks for the company where I worked as a programmer.
I’d been making afghans for a few years and giving them away as gifts. I rarely knew who the recipient would be when I started a new one. But eventually, while rhythmically poking my hook in and out of the yarn, a name would pop into my head. I’d given one of my afghans to a coworker with a difficult pregnancy. One to a friend entering rehab. My dad got one when he started dialysis. Usually, God was prompt about telling me who needed comfort. But I hadn’t yet gotten an inkling of who should receive the afghan I was near finishing.
“Did you hear about Susan?” I turned from my computer. My friend Lori, one of the directors of our company, had stopped by my desk. We’d collaborated with Susan from the county health department on a project recently, but I only saw her in meetings. We’d never had a private conversation. Susan was way above my rank, so to speak. I just worked with the data her department provided.
“Is she okay?” I asked.
“She’s in the hospital for a double mastectomy,” Lori said. “What a difficult thing for her and her family to be going through.”
There’s my name, I thought. The afghan was for Susan.
But sending something personally seemed presumptuous. Wouldn’t she think it weird to receive a gift from a random programmer? A handmade gift at that. Susan was an important person, and I…was not. Besides, Lori mentioned that the office would send something from all of us.
That night, I prayed about it while putting the last stitches on the afghan in my lap. I hoped God would give me a different name, but none came.
Reluctantly, I looked up the website of the hospital where Susan was having her surgery. There were patient pages, where people could leave good wishes. Susan’s page was full of messages. Friends and family were visiting, bringing her gourmet chocolates, dropping off meals for her family. Susan has a great support network, Lord. Surely the afghan ought to go to someone else? I don’t even have her address….
I clicked a link on Susan’s page. Her home address popped up. I just can’t, Lord. I can’t send this gift from me.
A voice seemed to come from deep inside me. Vicki, it said, it isn’t from you.
“Yes, Lord,” I prayed, “I hear you.” I wrapped up the afghan in a pretty gift bag, put it in a box, addressed it and wrote a little note: “I hope this brings you comfort.” I signed my name, unsure if Susan would even recognize it.
Susan sent me a nice thank-you note in return. If she’d thought the gesture was odd, she hid it well. Still feeling awkward, I didn’t mention it to anyone at the office. Not even Lori. So I was surprised to learn that Susan had told her about the afghan herself. “She took it back to the hospital with her when she went in for reconstructive surgery,” Lori said. “She won’t even let her husband wash it for fear he’ll ruin it.”
“Oh, my afghans aren’t anything so special,” I said, feeling embarrassed.
“It’s not just about your handiwork, Vicki,” Lori said. “Your gift meant much more.”
I’d worried I was being inappropriate, thinking I was the wrong person to reach out. But God can choose anyone to deliver his love. A voice had told me so.
For more angelic stories, subscribe to Angels on Earth magazine.
