Five Minutes in the Post Office

I'm sending a lumpy envelope to a friend across the border.

Being a lumpy envelope, it has to pass through customs. According to my friendly neighborhood postman.

So I'm standing to the side, filling out the necessary paperwork.

And a man walks up to the counter, asking about work.

His demeanor is soft. Defeated. And the post office has no good news for him.

I send up a prayer for him, to find a great job. And my eyes started tearing up for him.

Back in line. Up to the counter.

I can't help overhearing the lady in the next line.

A plain, brown parcel. The postman stats asking their "perishable, hazardous, jadda jadda" questions.

Her son's dog is in there. And the box isn't moving.

The postman says they need hazardous paperwork.

I start to giggle, until I see the customer's stricken expression.

Clearly this was an adored pet.

Another prayer. Another broken heart.

As we leave, I'm wondering what kinds of stories those postmen take home to their dinner tables.

They must see such an amazing cross-section of humanity.

Because in just my five there minutes:

I laughed.

I cried.

I prayed twice.

Imagine working a whole shift there!