A couple of Masses ago, our priest gave a moving homily on surrendering. That topic hit home because I can easily slip into the “control” mode, which is not always a fun place to be. We were handed a printout of a surrender novena on the way out of church that day. I like novenas. They are short, sweet prayers usually said daily over nine days, so I decided to try it. The concept of the novena is to relax and forget about your worries; just get out of God’s way and let Him do His thing. I needed this — big time. It was refreshing to surrender my control over my bank balance, book sales, writing schedule, race training, shoe obsession, barking dog in the neighborhood, etc. I was doing quite well with this until a few weeks ago.

When I travel, I usually mail home a couple of boxes so my luggage is not so heavy, especially when I’m returning from Texas because my sisters and I love to shop. My last trip home from Houston was not an easy one. First, I was flying on Alaska Airlines; need I say more? My flight was canceled three times during that week, so it was back and forth from my sister Karen’s house to the airport. Before I called her the third time to pick me up, I went up to the Alaska ticket counter with the request that they put me up in a hotel for the night. My request was denied because the cancellation was weather-related. They were having trouble de-icing the wings. Really? It was forty-three degrees outside. I recited my novena, and within two hours, my sister Karla, who works for Southwest Airlines, was able to get me a last-minute ticket home; otherwise, I’d probably still be in Houston waiting for Alaska to get its shit together.

All those cancellation texts I received were frustrating, but the United States Postal Service let me down, too. I’d packed up two priority boxes with my running gear: shoes, leggings, running belts, my favorite running jacket, T-shirts, new clothes, and a few small items I could stuff in. I mailed them on the 16^th of January, and the estimated arrival time was the 18^th. They didn’t show up. I used the tracking numbers and learned the boxes were sent to Missouri, where they sat for several days. I tracked them again a few days later, and they weren’t in Missouri; they were in Missouri City, Texas, a few miles from Houston. A week later, they were in USPS’s north Houston distribution center. Then, my sister Karen sent me a news video about the meltdown that was occurring there. A new scanning machine had been ordered for this facility, and when it arrived, it was too big to fit into the building. I could picture the guy who was responsible, looking at this monstrous contraption, scratching his head as to what to do. I wasn’t sure it was a man, but if a woman had ordered it, she would have gotten out her tape measure before pushing the send button on the order. (No disrespect, fellows. We all have our strengths and weaknesses.) Anyway, the only thing the post office could do was start tearing out the facility’s walls. The news video showed thousands and thousands of boxes and packages stacked, not too neatly, I might add, to the ceiling. The whistleblower interviewed on the news predicted the mess wouldn’t be cleaned up for weeks, months, maybe April.

Somewhere among that mess were my boxes. Even though it was January, I worried that if my boxes sat there until the spring, the gourmet chocolates I packed would melt all over my favorite running jacket and iPod Shuffle.

I called the 1–800 number on my mailing receipt and added my information. There was nothing more to do. That’s when I remembered the surrender novena and started my nine-day regiment. Surrendering the machinations of the United States Postal Service was not easy. Finally, I received a text that one of my boxes had left Texas! Yay!

It was in Opa-Locka, Florida. The first box to arrive was eighteen days late. It was not the one from Florida. I can’t really blame it. Florida in January is beautiful. I longed to hang out on the beach with my box. Two days later, it found its way to my doorstep. When I opened the box, the odor of a long-dead animal rushed out. I had to wash everything twice.

There are two morals to the story: surrendering eventually works, and God has a sense of humor.