Unfortunately, as we approached the end of my fourth grade, the last order of the school year hadn’t yet arrived. The final day of class, our teacher promised to mail our orders to us when they finally got there. Man, was that a long summer. Six days a week, I remember walking down to the mailbox to see if my literary bounty had arrived. It never did, of course. At some point, the teacher decided it’d be easier to wait until the next school year began and disseminate the books to the returning fifth graders. I was relieved when I finally got them, but I also remember feeling a sense of betrayal, too. All summer, I’d been dutifully waiting for my books to arrive, and they hadn’t. A promise had been broken.

I was brought back to this moment recently when I found myself absently considering the nature of promises. (It’s an election year – promises abound.) Most religions are founded on a promise: that if you live your live dutifully (keep trudging to that mailbox!) you’ll be rewarded in whatever comes next. Most of the time, I’m not sure I have it in me to rely on such assurances. But, then, I remember that even as an adult, I still get immense pleasure from the simple act of driving to the post office and discovering a package with a review copy of a book in it. I think of that young boy, eagerly approaching the old country mailbox with the hope that there’ll be something wrapped in brown paper waiting for him, and I know that this anticipation can be its own small reward.

So it is with faith, I suspect.

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