A certain young man who grew up in America's heartland served in the military, an officer who faithfully executed his duties on behalf of the nation. More than a decade passed, and this officer had been posted to far-flung lands. For reasons unknown to us, and we have no need to know them, the relationship with his father had cooled over time, and the emotional distance between them was perhaps as great as the geographical distance.
The father died. The officer was granted compassionate leave and traveled a quarter of the way around the world to attend the obsequies, and to tend to the affairs of the decedent.
Skip ahead a few days. The services are over, the grave has been closed. The young man and his siblings enter the father's house, the task at hand to sort, clean, and prepare the property for sale. And what should our officer find in his father's bedroom? On a dresser top, a brown box, perhaps a bit over a cubic foot in volume, sat unopened, exactly in the condition it was in when the postal service delivered it; exactly in the condition it was in nearly a year prior to this day when the officer had carefully wrapped and packaged the Christmas gift he had thoughtfully selected for his father, the postage stamps properly affixed and cancelled.
Have you accepted the Greatest Gift ever given?