I was alright until Maven told me, “I hope they didn’t end up in the trash can.”
“They”…my wedding rings. Until that moment I’d undertaken a casual search, starting with the usual places: the pockets of my pink robe, my yellow robe, and the gray shorts I’d worn the day before; my jewelry box I never use, in the dust balls under the bathroom cabinet. Then I moved on to the bottom of the clothes hamper, the green dish on the kitchen island, the top of the chest, and the bowls on the bookcase. After that, I started gently interrogating folks and working my way through each room in the house, leaving no stone or little person unturned. I even offered get-out-of-jail free cards to possible offenders. I still didn’t panic until Maven shook her head and used the words “trash can” and “rings” in the same breath. That’s when I prayed, “Lord, only You know where they are. And only You can tell me where to find them.” I continued looking and hoping and praying, writing a mental blog about the whole thing, until finally, at 1 a.m., I resigned myself to a morning hunt through used Kleenex, last week’s pork loin, soured milk cartons, and other scary goodies from our kitchen trash.
In other words, I was at a loss. So I gave up.
I recognized this sense of hopelessness all dressed up in faith and resignation. I felt it during each miscarriage. I’ve felt it when seeking healing in broken relationships. I’ve felt it in little things like losing my keys. I’ve felt it regarding my publication efforts. So many times I’ve given up, accepted my fate, “given it to God,” when in fact I didn’t want to keep pressing and dealing with rejection, digging through the dumpster of my sadness and disappointment and anger. So often I’ve resorted to everything but prayer or I’ve turned to God as a last resort when all hope seemed lost, just as in the search for my rings.
“I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.” (Song of Solomon 6:3)
As I rounded the bed to crawl in I was moved to check the window sill beside my chaise lounge—you know, the infamous chaise that provided me such a comfy view of my world last week? And there they sat: my rings. How I clutched them to my chest in thanksgiving and honestly, in disbelief. I rubbed the Song of Solomon scripture etched in Hebrew on one of my bands. Part of me believed I’d find them; the other part believed I’d lost them forever.
But I am God’s beloved and He is mine. And unlike me, He doesn’t give up on what is precious to Him. With God all hope is never lost, for He is my hope and is always working on my behalf. When He saved me, He dug down and plucked me from the muck and mire before I even knew what was happening. He comforts me through all my sorrows and loss and brokenness, strengthening and growing me and gluing together the broken pieces. He knows my every hope and dream because He originated them, so it’s not about me “giving them” to Him; they’re His in the first place and I just need to trust His plan and not give up even if it’s 1 a.m.
After all, He’s never the one lost. I am. Or at least I was. My newly bejeweled fingers are clutching His and this time, I won’t let go.
“And the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant seeking beautiful pearls, who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had and bought it.” Matthew 13:45-46
