A Secret for Five
I knew a secret. Only three people—maybe four—knew this secret: me; my husband, Bill; his secretary, Jill; and maybe Jill’s husband.
And what was that secret?
Bill, my husband of nearly thirty years, wanted to divorce me and marry Jill.
Divorce is nothing new; it was going on even in Jesus’ time. It wasn’t even new to me. My mother has been married numerous times, divorcing my own father when I was two.
But I had never envisioned myself divorced. Bill and I still held hands! Well, we did until February 14, 2001. That stopped after a romantic dinner at our favorite restaurant when he announced that he was moving out.
“Nothing you say or do will change my mind,” Bill said.
Valentine’s Day had always been important to Bill. While he might not always remember my birthday or our anniversary, he always remembered February 14 and made it special. He proposed to me on Valentine’s Day, giving me flowers, treating me to dinner, and getting down on one knee after a stroll on the beach.
On the twenty-fifth anniversary of his proposal, he gave me a gold heart with a diamond at the center.
“Wear this always and it will remind you of my love,” he said.
On Valentine’s night in 2001, I sat in shock, fingering the heart necklace I always wore and wondering how long our marriage had been a joke. I had not seen this coming.
I chose not to tell anyone about my husband’s affair, especially not our two sons, because I was praying that Bill would change his mind. And if he did, I didn’t want any of my friends or family members to hold his indiscretion against him. I loved him and was willing to forgive him. Plus, I think I was in denial. If I kept quiet about it, then it might not actually happen.
So a few days later when I went to the post office, the secret was still a secret.
When I got to the post office parking lot, I had about five minutes before the employees closed the doors. Another woman had pulled into the space next to mine. She struggled with three large boxes, obviously ready to mail.
“Let me help you,” I said, taking a box.
“Thank you,” she replied with a pronounced Hispanic accent. Her long black hair was pulled back at the sides and fastened with gold clips, and she wore an expensive dark green jacket and matching slacks, as if she’d just gotten off work. Large gold earrings matched her hair clips, and her makeup was perfect.
I, on the other hand, wore jeans and a sweater. My own dark hair was in a long braid down my back. In Houston, Texas, we have mild winters, so neither of us needed a coat.
She gripped a box in either arm and followed me into the post office, her heels clicking on the pavement. My tennis shoes scuffled. A postal employee locked the doors behind us.
As we joined the end of the short line, she asked me about postage.
“I am not from here,” she said. A light citrus fragrance surrounded her. “I do not know how to mail these boxes.”
“If you’re not in a hurry for the packages to arrive, then it’s pretty cheap to mail them. But if you want them to arrive by a certain date, then you’ll have to pay more for first class or priority mail,” I said, shifting her box so I was balancing it on my hip. To the best of my knowledge, I explained the difference between the rates. “And the postal workers here are easy to work with. They’ll help you.”
As we moved up in line, she told me she was from Guatemala. “Our postal system is not very reliable.”
“We complain about ours,” I said, “but, overall, it works pretty well.”
Two spots opened up at the counter and I handed her the box I was carrying for her.
“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your help.”
I smiled. “No problem.”
The woman behind the counter took my large brown envelope, weighed it, and stamped it. I paid for the postage and headed for the door. When the Guatemalan woman stepped away from the counter right behind me, I was surprised. I figured that it would take her longer because of the three boxes, but I was wrong. The postal worker was in a hurry to go home, I guessed.
Another employee unlocked the door and let us out.
“You’ve been so helpful,” she said as we walked out together. “I would like to do something for you now.”
“Oh, goodness, no,” I protested. “I didn’t really do anything.”
“Would you let me pray for you?” she asked.
“Pray for me?” That surprised me. As a Christian I had no problem with people praying for me, but a stranger had never offered to pray for me in a parking lot. I hesitated for only a moment.
“Sure,” I said.
She stood in front of me and took both of my hands in hers. A charm bracelet jingled on her right wrist. Rings adorned several fingers and her nails were painted pale pink. I closed my eyes as she began to pray.
“Heavenly Father, I lift up Pam—”
Pam. I didn’t remember telling her my name . . . but, maybe I had?
“—and ask that you give her strength and courage to face her current situation.”
My current situation? What?
“Give her and her two sons the guidance they’ll need.”
My two sons? I knew I’d never mentioned my family to her.
“And surround her with your love during the divorce and afterward.”
My eyes flew open and I stared at her. Her eyes were still closed and her face serene. How could she know any of this about me?
“Help her to know that the future holds great hope for her. Through Jesus Christ I pray. Amen.”
She opened her eyes and smiled at me, squeezing my hands.
I was so astonished, I didn’t know what to say.
She unhooked her charm bracelet and fastened it around my right wrist. “I want you to have this.”
“Oh, no,” I said, “I couldn’t possibly—”
She raised a hand, and I stopped speaking. “I want you to wear this. It will remind you of God’s love for you.”
I looked at the charm bracelet as my left hand fingered my necklace. Almost the exact words Bill had said to me five years earlier.
Eyeing my hand on the heart necklace, she shook her head.
“This isn’t a promise like that one,” she said. “This is God’s promise to you. He loves you and wants you to be reminded of it, especially during the tough times that are ahead of you.”
“How . . . how do you know these things?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about that,” she said with a smile. “Accept the gift and know that God loves you.”
“Thank you,” I said. I held my arm up and the charm bracelet jingled like tiny bells. “Could I have your name and phone number? I . . . I might want to talk to you again.”
“Sure,” she said and dug in her black purse. She scribbled her name and phone number on a torn piece of pink paper and handed it to me.
I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t lose it, so I put it in the coin section of my wallet.
“Thank you,” I repeated.
She waved good-bye, got in her car, and drove off. I stood in the parking lot, staring at the bracelet.
The bracelet was silver in color but was not an expensive piece of jewelry. The charms were set in three sets of threes. Each set had a leaping dolphin facing right, a star, and a leaping dolphin facing left. Nothing Christian about it. And yet, I felt special wearing it.
I drove home wondering about my strange encounter. Once at home, I opened the coin section of my wallet to look at that pink piece of paper. But it wasn’t there. I have no idea what happened to it, but it disappeared between the post office and my home.
Was the Guatemalan woman an angel in disguise? I have no idea, but I like to think she was. Even if she wasn’t an angel, God was obviously using her. She was no ordinary woman. She knew my secret.
And so did God.
That comforted me during the divorce and the years after. All I had to do was look at that bracelet to know that God loved me; He cared what happened to me, and He was with me. Always.