The Day the Pot Arrived

God can run his own PR campaigns, but this time he piggybacked on someone else’s.

 I rarely catch colds, but every so often they catch me. My sniffles started during the night, followed by a series of tickles that constricted my throat and sent me dashing for water. The next morning, with a full-blown head cold and a truckload of tissues, I settled at my desk.

“Ahem….someone’s sending you pot now,” somebody said awhile later. I looked up. The Preacher had just returned from the post office. He handed me a bulky padded envelope.

In black marker, someone had carefully penned, Kathleen Gibson, columnist, Yorkton This Week—followed by my mailing address. On the lower left corner of the package, bold as a skunk’s stripe, I noticed the words, “pot samples,” written in the same hand. As though they didn’t care who in the world saw.

We live in a village. We collect our mail at the home of the postmistress.  Inside the front door is a mailbox-lined wall that divides the postal outlet from the rest of the house. In the wall is an opening. Behind the opening is about a five-by-ten foot postal cubicle. And beyond that, sometimes the dining table is set for tea.

I wondered what the postmistress may have thought, stuffing my pot sample in our box.

Opening the package, I found a box that advertised a product I’d never seen before—something that looked rather like an Aladdin’s lamp. The pot, apparently, was designed especially for flushing out congested nostrils.

A hand written note, signed with a stranger’s name, accompanied the boxes. “Hi Kathleen, Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

Puzzled as to its source, I put the box on the counter.

It was still there when Friend Glenda arrived later, bearing herbs and fruit to relieve my cold. “Hey, you have a Neti-pot!” she said, spying the box on the counter. “Why haven’t you opened it? It’s exactly what you need for that cold.”

“Because baby it’s dot really a deti-pot. What if it’s frub sub-one who doesn’t like be? What if it’s a dail bomb?” I hate talking plugged.

Glenda rolled her eyes. “Kathleen. Open the box.”

It wasn’t a nail bomb after all.

Did you know that if you lean your head to one side and pour water up one clogged nostril, breathing through your mouth, the water streams instantly out the other nostril? After I drained, I breathed clearly for the first time in hours.

A bit of sleuthing told me where the pot came from: a marketing firm, hired by Neti-pot’s manufacturer to target media people in flu and cold season—in the hopes of garnering publicity and free advertising.

It looks like they got it. But they didn’t count on God piggybacking on their efforts—so I could bring you a story of his practical care and impeccable timing.


The details are in this video…and no, I don’t get affiliate fees for this. The pot really did help.