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I blew it the first time.

She was at the back of the church, frail, wheelchair bound, little lilac crocheted shawl around painfully thin shoulders, but I was running late so did my “thing,” got her name, got my hug and scurried around to pew #4 (end seat please). From here I could line up with the cantor and the music, singing is such fun. I have the wisdom to shut up if I can’t hit the high notes.

Service over, I rushed to the back, but they were gone. I could kick myself. I wanted to know more about that little shawl; did she still knit and/or crochet and of course, I wanted another hug.

I steamed and stewed and berated myself and hoped for a miracle. Then it happened! A magazine and a huge envelope were incorrectly delivered to our mailbox.

Miss J….. Assisted Living…….. etc. etc. etc.

“Husband dearest,” I said, “here’s my miracle. I’m sure this is my little lady with the lilac crocheted shawl. Now, don’t return these items to the post office, I want to deliver it.”

Did he listen? Of course not. But it was destined that our paths would cross again because a few Sundays later, there she was! This time I got her full name, address, the works.

I discovered she had a sweet tooth, so armed with two boxes of Maltesers I went to visit. One box missed five balls. The HTOH (Head of the Household) “had” to make sure they were good.

We had a lovely visit, I met one of her daughters, hugged and said goodbye. That should’ve been that but I couldn’t let go.

More next time.

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