There was a yellow card in my post office box. Our borough does not have house delivery, so we all make the pilgrimage to the post office for letters and parcels. The woman behind the counter, the one that my neighbors and I made a quilt for when we thought she was retiring, except that she wasn't, looked busy. She had enough surplus brain power while taping up a box to ask what I needed. 

"I have a package." 

She told my number to her assistant who went to the shelves in back and retrieved the quilt book I was expecting. 

"Thank you!" I said as I handed her the yellow card. Then it occurred to me. How can she possibly know every household's number? I have not memorized the phone numbers of my own children, Not that I need to, I suppose. I still have those anxious dreams about being stranded in the city without my cell phone, and unable to call anyone because I never made myself commit them to memory. But then I wake up.

I am impressed that the post office manager has hundreds of our box numbers in her head. Maybe she is good with digits. Or perhaps she has a cheat sheet on her side of the wall and peeks so unobtrusively that I don't notice. But I think she really knows. It is after all her job. 

Somehow seeing my post lady handle our numbers with such aplomb makes it easier for me to believe that my Creator can keep track of the individual needs of His children. There have been many times when my prayer was answered, and it had barely formed in my brain. Like when I wondered how to support a friend who was struggling, and she walked into the bakery where I was sitting. Or I asked God for help being patient with my husband, and he forgot about an appointment. 

It turns out, it's His job, too.