I weighed in about the order of three errands. One was to stealthily leave a note and flowers by a friend's tree, where her daughters keep a fairy garden. I had set a tiny mug with the name Zachary there last week and the girls had written a message asking Zachary if they should address him as king. Just past her house was the porch pick up of a box of fresh produce from a Community Shared Agriculture. Boxes often arrive by early afternoon, so it was probably waiting. Finally I needed to stop by the post office. I swerved the car to the left, and parked by the fairy tree, making sure that no children were in the yard. I was gone in less than thirty seconds. I pulled into the driveway of the drop off location, and peeked. No boxes. But just then I heard the sound of a truck shifting to first gear. The driver who pulled up was friendly enough, farmers generally are, and I turned off the radio to watch the trees while he unloaded. I considered offering to help but he was less than thirty and hale while I am sixty and flabby. I stayed put. 

The tallest oak stretched eighty feet in the sky, and was likely a hundred years old. The foliage was twenty hues of green, and each leaf shimmered as the light played across it. The wind took delight in tickling them, sending them to and fro. They reminded me of the children that morning who had skittered across the lawn in every direction. The counselors worry about losing kids who run too fast and far. But these leaves were firmly attached, and stood no chance of escaping their mother tree. At least not before October. Their conflicting dance seemed to pose no threat to the stability of the tree. In fact I think she enjoyed it. 

The farmer asked my name and kindly brought me my box. It was packed with lettuce, new potatoes, yellow squash, onions and zucchini. He asked if I was related to a friend he has with the same last name, and we chatted for a bit. I asked him to say hello to Kelsie, which he assured me he would. 

Driving to the post office, my thoughts rambled to a friend who is struggling. I wondered about whether to reach out. I opened my mailbox where the offerings were admittedly uninteresting. But as I walked out the friend who had been in my heart not a minute before walked in. I gulped. 

"I am sorry things are hard." Silent nod. I offered a hug but that was too much. So be it. 

The serendipity of the triplet of tasks seemed almost orchestrated. If the sequence were swapped I could have easily missed the friend, and the farmer. Someone eighty feet up would have seen the crisscrossing paths, and could have called down.   

"Hey! Turn back! The truck just arrived."

"Lori! The person you are praying for is around the corner!"

There are days when it feels like all my efforts are so much flapping in the wind. But perhaps if I remember to address Him as King, God will lend me the stability of a hundred years. And enjoy it.