I read a story about a woman named Susan whose husband was a prisoner during WWII. His name was William Johnson, and she faithfully wrote to him every week, hoping with everything in her that the letters would be delivered. There was no way to be sure, of course. Susan tried to be cheery, describing the children, and how they were growing. She mentioned the weather, and their neighbors. Anything except the enormous fear. After nine grueling months, William walked in the front door. He was emaciated, and gray, but he was alive. Susan threw her arms around him, laughing with joy and relief that he was home. Their children cried and hugged his legs, all talking at once. 

 

After a few days of her best cooking, and slow walks through their small town, she asked about the letters. 

 

"Did you like reading them? I wasn't really sure what to talk about."

 

He looked into her eyes. "I never got them." There was an awkward pause. 

 

"No matter! You are here now, and our life can begin again!" Susan tossed off her disappointment like a sweater in the warm sun. Regrets were meaningless. 

 

Later in the spring a gaunt young man knocked on their door. 

 

"What can I do for you?" she asked. 

 

"Hello. Are you Susan Johnson?" He extended his thin hand.

 

"Yes, yes I am. How can I help?" He carried a heavy sadness like darkness that refused to be dispelled.

 

"My name is William Johnson. I just want to thank you for writing all those months. I knew they weren't for me but they brought such comfort. I read them each a hundred times. Here they are." He held out a stack of wrinkled envelopes. 

 

Susan gasped and grabbed his arm, pulling him into the house. She gave him a seat and brought him soup from the stove. Her children asked who this man was.

 

"He has the very same name as Daddy! Isn't that remarkable?" In the chatter of questions, they fell into a comfortable rhythm, skirting the bruised places, and savoring the sweet ones. 

 

It's funny how we may have an idea of how our gifts and good intentions should be carried out. Yet it seems that God sometimes redirects them. Finding still more needy recipients.