The Last Valentine's Day Delivery

This article by J. Byerly is taken from "Gospel Notes," a newspaper based in Bulls Gap, TN. It is lengthy, but, if you have time, read it to the end. It is a great story.

As I stepped into the unfamiliar van to load the last of the deliveries, the smell of hothouse blooms was overwhelming. Not the rich fragrance that comes from a summer garden, but the sickly sweet smell of flowers forced to bloom in winter.

It was the middle of my junior year in a small southern university town, and jobs were scarce. So I had taken a one-day, sunup-to-sundown delivery position for Valentine’s Day. It didn’t matter that I knew nothing about flowers, because Mary only wanted me to drive and deliver and be quick about it.

I slammed the door shut and began the last run of the day. It was pleasant enough work because I was the bearer of loving surprises, some expected, some not. Even though I knew the smiles, squeals, and sighs the bouquets elicited were not directed at me, it was fun to be there to watch the excitement and pleasure. Even the sweetheart responsible for sending the flowers didn’t get to experience what I did.

Day’s Work About Over

The early winter darkness threatened to descend before I got the last of the deliveries made. I was worn out from the day’s work and longed to return to the dorm. Looking back into the van, I saw the last two deliveries. One was an arrangement of four dozen yellow roses, each bloom a bud of perfection. My weary shoulders perked up a bit at the thought of delivering such an exquisite arrangement. None I had seen that day could match the sheer size of that amber creation. I could hardly wait to witness the delight that such a delivery would surely bring.

The only other delivery was a single pink carnation in a small, bud vase. It was the most inexpensive flower Mary handled, and I felt a tinge of sympathy for the woman who was to receive it. Maybe a cheap gift was better than none, but it certainly looked pathetic next to the yellow roses.

The first address was in the most affluent part of town, sprinkled with private drives, groomed lawns, and oversized homes. I turned into a circular drive and hopped out to deliver the gift. My excitement mounted as I waited for the door to open.

Finally, an attractive, middle-aged woman came to the door. Her agitation was obvious, but in my pride over the flowers I was unmindful of her attitude.

“Delivery for Mrs. R.L. Warrington,” I smiled.

“Yes, I know,” she replied coldly. “It’s about time. Bring them in here.” She indicated where I was to put them. “Now I want to make sure about the delivery for tonight at the P.T.A. meeting. My husband ordered an identical arrangement to be delivered to me there.”

“I’ll check on that when I get back,” I answered, confused and slightly humiliated by her lack of response. As I moved toward the door, she pressed a five-dollar bill into my hand.

“Well, just make sure that those are on time!” she commanded, slamming the massive door.

I stood a few seconds sorting through my disappointment before walking back to the van. Darkness had quickly overtaken the day along with a sour disillusionment. I began to dread the last delivery even more. I drove to the edge of town and into a government housing project, finally stopping at the correct apartment. As I held the small flower and trudged up the stairs, I could see the blue light of a TV through the window. I knocked, and a lanky man in his late 30s answered. His clothes had the look of a long day’s work, and his face was set in tired lines until he realized why I was there. His shoulders straightened, and the lines faded from his face as he quickly motioned to me to stay on the porch. Through the window I saw him casually stretch out in front of the TV.

“Honey, can you get the door?” he called.

A work-worn woman came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She playfully hit his legs with the towel as she passed by. “Can’t you get up from there?” she smiled. As she opened the door, I was almost embarrassed to hold out the lonely carnation in the cheap, white vase.

“Delivery for Wanda Emory.”

She clasped her hands in delight as joyful tears dropped from her eyes. She quickly wiped them away with the dish towel.

“Oh, Raymond!” she whispered as she reverently reached for the flower. “It’s beautiful!”

She gazed tenderly at it before turning to her proud, adoring husband. I watched them for a few more moments, realizing they were utterly unaware of my presence.

Walking slowly back to the van, I looked into the clear, black sky and prayed a silent prayer. It was the first time I fully understood that what I wanted God to give me some day was not an affluent, prestigious family, but one filled with the kind of love I had just seen.