Blessings in a Box

Short story by: Aimée Doyle

*While the events in this short story are true, names in this story have been changed out of courtesy and respect to the privacy of the faithful. 

It was a Sunday morning in early May, and the spring air was thick with the scent of fresh grass as I walked to my church. The streets were quiet except for the occasional bird song, and I clutched a small cardboard box to my chest. It wasn’t much to look at—a simple reused gift box from a local jewelry store—but it carried something deeply meaningful: nine small miraculous medals, carefully assembled by me, and meant to be shared.

That morning, unbeknownst to me (it was likely noted in the bulletin, but I probably missed the memo) Immaculate Conception was holding its First Communion Mass, and the church was bursting with energy. Children in crisp white dresses and miniature suits fidgeted in the pews, surrounded by proud family members packed in so tightly it felt like we were sardines. Yet there was something comforting about that closeness—like I belonged. I hadn’t felt that in a long time. 

The medals in my box weren’t just trinkets. I’d originally meant to order just one for a Lent project, but it was cheaper to buy in bulk. I gave a few away—one in an Easter basket for an outreach project, two to my nieces—but I still had several left. My sister’s pinning ceremony to become a registered nurse was approaching, and though I couldn’t attend—I was exhausted from the long semester and trying to regain my strength —I wanted her to have something blessed, something sacred, to carry with her on her path as a nurse.

This church, this day, felt like the right time to ask.

The box itself had its own story—one that quietly affirmed my dignity at a time when so much of it had been stripped away. I received it after covering a feel-good piece for the local news station where I once worked ——running a news bureau out of my own home—— as an on-air correspondent. That assignment had been about a jewelry store raffle supporting a local domestic violence shelter. Of course this was during ‘ladies night’, which had been thoroughly underwhelming, and I had started to resign myself to not doing a story at all. I was very careful during my broadcast career about what I gave my energy and attention to for news content, I was well-versed in media literacy studies, plus I was paying all the bills at the bureau and never saw a dime of reimbursement from the station. That night, nothing around me seemed worthwhile. After walking to a jewelry store on the very outer edge of town, I realized I was there to capture the heartwarming details and spotlight the generosity of a small business giving back in support of domestic violence victims. After catching an interview and doing some filming, I was entered into the raffle drawing on a whim. I never expected to hear anything again.

But a few days later, the call came. I had won. Not just a trinket, but the chance to come in and choose something—something beautiful, something lasting. I remember standing there in the store, overwhelmed by emotion as I held the delicate jewelry box in my hand. At that moment, it felt like God had whispered to me, I see you. Because no one else seemed to.

At work, in broadcasting, I was invisible. My creativity—my God-given ability to tell stories with depth and compassion—was regularly exploited to prop up others. Especially one coworker who wore the title of “mentor” like a mask but operated more like a thief. She screamed at me during my first live segment, deliberately failing to cue me in, and then feigned confusion when I faltered on-air. Behind closed doors, she would gush over the stories I scripted—if they were for her to read on-air. But when the story was mine to tell, suddenly it wasn’t good enough. My segments were chopped, rewritten, reassigned. More than once, I watched her glance around the newsroom, gauging who was present, before deciding just how much she could undermine me without being noticed.

The cruelty was subtle, sustained, and sanctified by the silence of those in charge. There was no formal recognition, no fair reward. Only the ache of being overlooked. So when I held that jewelry box—unearned by office politics or favoritism, freely given by god’s grace after a truly authentic story that had mattered—it felt sacred. A small token, yes, but heavy with meaning. A sign that God was not blind to the unfairness, that He was watching, even if no one else was.

The injustice extended far beyond that coworker. I remember the day early on that I heard corporate executives casually mention that on-air reporters could borrow jewelry from a partner store for broadcasts. They made it sound like an open opportunity—one meant to elevate the professionalism of our appearances. Eager to try, I borrowed a pair of earrings for a Christmas segment I had pitched and planned myself. It featured a local nativity scene and was my first major solo live shot in my own city. I was told the director would drive out—an hour away—to assist me, and I felt so proud. But at the last moment, the plan changed without any explanation. Instead, they sent a student intern to stand beside me. Luckily for me, by this point in my career, I had learned to come prepared for the inevitable sabotage of my live shots. 

Once again, I was left hanging, 30 seconds on air without a proper cue. But this time, I was ready. I had prepared my script and I delivered it with confidence, despite the delayed start. The borrowed earrings shimmered under the lights, a quiet nod to the effort I had put in—not just into the story, but into surviving in that awful internal environment.

Afterward, I mentioned the earrings to that same coworker, believing I was following protocol. She was quick to correct me, saying the jewelry arrangement was only for her. That directly contradicted what the executives had spoken, and what she herself had joked about in a group text with our male colleagues—laughing that even they could borrow the jewelry if they wanted to.

The hypocrisy stung, but by then, I knew better than to expect fairness. Still, the jewelry I’d won—my jewelry—remained untouched by all of that. It wasn’t about vanity. It was about validation. A quiet gift from God that said, Your work matters. You matter. Every time I opened that box, I remembered that divine affirmation. In a workplace where the truth was often twisted, that small, shining reminder helped me hold onto my own.

Mass that morning was beautiful. I sat beside an elderly woman I’d seen before but never met. We whispered about how crowded it was, and she mentioned how difficult parking had been. I smiled, thankful I had walked. As the homily began, our priest spoke about being a challenger and an evangelizer—how we must carry our faith outward. I knew then: this was the moment. I hadn’t planned it this way, but this was why I had brought the medals today.

After the final blessing, families lingered, snapping photos and doting on their little ones. I waited patiently, letting the crowd thin. I chatted with a leader of my choir group about the pilgrimage to the ´Our Lady of Champion’ shrine —- I had missed it because of final exams. Then, I saw Kristen Larkswell, and realized one of her daughters had just received first communion. 

Kristen and I weren’t particularly close in college, but we’d shared a sorority and mutual respect, so I made a beeline toward her because I wanted to take a moment and offer my support for the wonderful milestone her daughter has reached. I had also interviewed and broadcast her other daughter several times for the TV station—once for a school trip to McDonald’s, and again when she beautifully danced in The Nutcracker - as a former pointe ballet dancer myself, the girl had been a news story after my own heart. I walked over to Kristen to briefly say hello, and that’s when another strange woman appeared, abruptly, as I was trying to move on to my mission.

The woman approached from my left, smiling like an old friend. She inserted herself between Kristen and I with a familiarity I didn’t recognize. “We’re the Lake State crew,” she said, as if I were part of some club I’d forgotten. Her tone was strange—confident, maybe even too confident. I had never seen her before in my life.

Still, I tried to be gracious. She introduced herself as Tessa Hennigan, Kristen’s best friend and former roommate. She mentioned another girl from Kristen & I’s sorority—another Amy—and acknowledged that this other Amy from my past hadn’t been very friendly to me. That was putting it lightly. That other Amy had once threatened me so severely I’d locked myself in a bathroom for several hours just to stay safe.

I nodded, trying to be polite while looking for an opening to step away. But then as the conversation progressed Tessa said, “Kristen told me you worked for the newspaper.”

The newspaper. That was my cue.

I knew then she must have been lying. If this woman truly knew Kristen as well as she claimed, she likely would’ve known I worked in TV news, not print. I’d interviewed Kristen’s older daughter. I had aired her on my station at least twice. Tessa’s pretense felt deliberate, like a veiled dig—something I’d experienced before from other women who couldn’t stomach the idea of my on-air role in broadcast media. I corrected her gently, knowing I was confronting her with the truth. “No, I worked for the TV station.” She blinked, feigning ignorance.

We chatted a bit more, her questions cloaked in casual curiosity. Then she mentioned Spencer—a name I hadn’t heard in years. He was someone I’d once cared for deeply. What she likely didn’t know was that Spencer had, without trying, helped pull me from the wreckage of an emotionally abusive relationship—with his best friend.

That season of my life had been dark. I was working nights through early college in a smoke-filled bar just to scrape by, barely able to breathe in that thick air. When I finally found another job, it was at a hotel where the manager—a man from Turkey who lived on-site—became a new source of fear. He slapped me in front of guests, threatened me constantly, tried many deliberate - but failed - tactics to lure me to his suite. I was terrified. I reported him to the police, but fear of retaliation and losing my job silenced me. I turned to the hotel’s owners, who sent someone to “investigate.” That male investigator quietly transferred the manager to another location out of state. I later learned the investigator himself was wanted for money laundering.

The system failed me. I learned early that truth is often punished, while silence is rewarded. That realization became one of many reasons I joined the Army National Guard. I spent my 21st birthday in boot camp, rebuilding the parts of me that had been broken.

Back in the present, Tessa’s eyes darted around as she asked, “Do you have children here?”

Her phrasing struck like a cold wind. Not “Do you have a child in the ceremony?” or “Is your family here?”—but a question that seemed to suggest I didn’t belong.

I froze. Just for a second. But then I remembered my mission. “I have a question for him,” I said, pointing to our priest.

And at that moment, God stepped in.

I was instantly uplifted, as if carried beyond that place and moment. I remembered the voice of the late Father Mark Beard (may God rest his soul): “The only thing the devil hates more than you is when you receive Holy Communion.” His words echoed again: “The devil hates you. The very mention of your name makes him spit. Because you are made in the image and likeness of Christ. His whole job—his whole job—is to torment you.”

I couldn’t move my legs, but God stirred something deeper—my voice.

I called out to our Priest without another word to Tessa. He turned to me, still smiling from his conversation with another family.

“Yes?” he answered gently.

And suddenly, I could move again.

I stepped away from her, holding my little box of medals close. I explained everything—how I planned to give one to my sister, and the rest to those in need. He listened carefully, then lifted his hand in blessing over each of the medals, speaking words of peace—especially for my sister who was to be gifted one.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

I crossed myself. Peace washed over me like light breaking through clouds.

As I exited the church, I dipped my fingers in the holy water and intentionally anointed the medals—each one. The ones I would give away. The one I would keep. Even the damaged one, a reminder that God’s grace still flows through imperfect vessels.

That one stayed with me.

And I vowed, right there with God as my witness, that I would not carry home that feeble attempt—so clearly orchestrated by Lucifer himself—to shake my calling as a mother.

I walked home with the box a little lighter in my hands.

And my heart, lighter still.