I Have a Box

It is an unassuming thing: white and measuring approximately 20” by 14” by 10”. There is some tape holding it closed, and various markings on it. It is a bit heavy, and a tad beat up from all of its travels.

It is my very first care package.

Sam happened to be visiting with me when he got the call that I had a package waiting. He was thrilled at my excitement and so happy to be the bearer of such good news he forgot to tell me exactly when and where and how to rendezvous with this package, only vaguely gesturing toward the campus’ entrance gate.

I had been expecting this package. Marjorie and I had colluded on it. I needed some pharmaceuticals that I’ve found are not available in China and ordered them online, to be sent to her house. She then added a few things of her own and found out that the cost of mailing a box to China is prohibitive. We split the postage and she let me know when she shipped it and when it should arrive.

Receiving a package or a letter in China is a bit different than in the States, as I’m sure I informed you. In this instance, my parcel was not delivered by courier but by the Post office, and it was dropped off at the main gate. There is a small building to the right of the entrance gate that signs for all incoming packages and then phone calls are made to the proper recipients to come pick them up. I was ready to pick my package up the minute I found out it was waiting for me, but Sam instructed me to wait until the afternoon.

I didn’t know about that small building wherein the packages lie.

At 4:00PM I sent Sam a text message asking if now were a good time to go get my package; he responded to the affirmative. With all of the glee of a small child at Christmas I set out to a nearby store that advertised it was an outlet for ChinaPost. I asked about my package and they looked at me like my nose was on upside down. They directed me to the post office, again vaguely gesturing up the street.

By now it had started raining, and I had forgotten my umbrella. No matter, my smile was my umbrella as I trudged though the mud to the next friendly store that advertised itself as an outlet for China Post and asked them where I’m supposed to go pick up a package. I should inform you that my Chinese has not substantially improved in the two months I’ve been here, and I still can’t manage the local dialect so again I got looks like I was possessed.

Finally a kind student helped me out by indicating that the post office is in fact across the major road. By now I’m a little unsettled and not exactly happy I’m getting rained on, smile or not. Arriving at the post office I ask about receiving a package only to be informed I never had to leave campus to receive it. Reversing my course through the rain and the mud, and mildly cursing Sam for not being more detailed in his explanation on how to receive packages, I trudged back to campus.

Serendipity saves me a lot of trouble around here, I’ve found out. It just so happens that the Postal Clerk I talked with had called ahead to let the campus mail clerk know I was on my way. She flagged me down as I entered the gate, otherwise I would never have known about the small building wherein packages lie. The clerk ceremoniously indicated which box I should pick up and take home with me.

As though I wouldn’t recognize a Parcel Post box, sealed with priority tape. As though I wouldn’t recognize the huge address label Marjorie printed out from her computer and affixed to the top of it. As though I didn’t hear the choir of angels singing at me when my eyes lit upon it. As though I really needed her to show me my box. Now I’m happy with Sam, the Post Office and the whole world again. I have my box.

You can imagine my excitement – not at receiving the items I had ordered, but at seeing what Marjorie had padded my order with. All I knew to expect was Oreos. I barely got my front door open for all my excitement, and stared reverently at this wonder, this unassuming container that had so recently been in the presence of my best friend and was now in my company.

The staring lasted all of about 5 seconds, and then I ripped into it. The tape hindered my animal efforts to liberate the contents so I ran to the kitchen for a knife and unceremoniously cut the offending binding. I was literally holding my breath until I touched the first packing peanuts concealing my treasures. One by one they emerged as I pawed through stryrofoam: a bar of chocolate, the promised Oreos – 2 bags!; a bag of Dove candies, a box of breakfast bars, a monster bottle of Listerine – the biggest money could buy. And the stuff I had ordered – but that was academic; I knew that stuff was going to be in there.

I sat down on my hideous couch, cradling my bottle of Listerine, with tears running down my face. My friend remembered I love Listerine. Running my fingers over the chocolates I imagined her standing in the candy aisle at Wal-Mart, trying to decide what might please me the most. I pictured her heading toward the checkout with all of these things she would never buy for herself (except the breakfast bars and the Listerine), trying to decide if she had bought enough stuff to send me. I imagined her at the checkout, a small smile playing on her lovely face as she paid for the things she knew would bring a smile to my face.

Oh, my friends: if you know of anyone who is far from home, either by their own decision or on order of a Supreme Commander – i.e. our Service Men and Women, please send them a care package. It doesn’t really matter what you put in it, it is the ‘care’ that matters. The idea that someone ‘back home’ is thinking of them. The idea that, no matter what they’re doing in a foreign country, they matter to those they left behind. The fact that, even though they are isolated they are thought of and loved and missed.

I stuffed an entire Oreo cookie in my mouth and drooled chocolate crumbles to mingle with my tears. Nice visual, right? Finally getting up from the couch I decided to leave my treasures on the coffee table all night, so that I could behold them every time I walked through the living room. And I passed through the living room often that day on my way to get tissue to wipe my tears with.

Later that night I found myself pawing through the packing peanuts one more time because I just couldn’t believe Marjorie would send a whole package and not include at least a card. Come to find out, there was one final gift in this care package Marjorie so lovingly prepared: a news article detailing her as a role model for men and women everywhere. Marjorie is in fact a Weight Watchers top 100 role model, and is currently enjoying a bit of fame for it. We had talked about it on the phone; she knew I wanted to share in her great success and thoughtfully included this article. I kicked myself for nearly having missed it, and then settled down to read the whole thing.

Marjorie, you are not just a Weight Watchers’ role model, you are a model friend and human being. You have taught me many things over the years, but now you’ve added a most important lesson: the value of caring.