On vacation. A relaxing morning drive, winding through green pine forests and soaring red rock cliffs. A pull-off in a small town to join the tourists’ parade – strolling through an outdoor mall, quick peek-ins to odd shops, pauses to glimpse the between-buildings spectacle of sprawling vistas and yawning blue skies.
No clock, no hurry. Far from news reports, emails, the rage and pandemics. A leisurely lunch. A stroll back to the baking car.
Her sunglasses are missing. The ones she especially likes. My wife doesn't dote on many material items, but a rising note in her voice tells me these shades matter. She can’t think where she left them. Probably in the restaurant, I suggest. “Come with me?” she asks. My beloved is of a considerably independent, self-reliant nature. I don’t hear that question often.
Back to the restaurant we go.
We'd done this once or twice before. The first time, we were still dating, and it was a killer whale key chain she’d lost crossing a quarter-mile field of tangled clover. The chain was a keepsake, and I could tell its loss bothered her. The sun was setting. I offered to walk back over the darkening field – Horton looking for a who.
The big field grew considerably bigger, going clover by clover. The sun was below the horizon. I prayed for a small miracle – or some unusually keen eyesight.
Ten minutes later, a glimmer of fading light flickered on a tiny black fin.
The second time, we were still newlyweds, the door of our first apartment adorned with another, bigger imitation orca, beneath it the word, Whalecome! A gift from my sister, and one my wife was fond of. We came home from church one Sunday to find it gone.
Tears. Not so much for the whale as for the hard reminder that Phoenix is not a small town in her native Idaho, where people don’t have to lock their doors, and no one would think of coldly absconding with such a clearly personal possession.
Since one doesn’t call the police for a killer whale curio, that left … prayer. We asked the Lord to give our sign back, or (this seemed correct, but came hard) to bless the people who took it.
A few weeks later, we came home from Sunday church to find the sign back on the door.
Walking up to the restaurant, I offered my first-ever prayer for the finding of some sunglasses.
The staff inside were gracious, smiling, helpful. They poked around with us. Nothing.
The kindly young gal in the clothing shop searched quickly, but couldn’t find anything.
“If you don’t find them, come back,” she said, eyes smiling over her mask. “I’ll help you look.” She really seemed to mean that.
The middle-aged couple chatting at the tables with the view of the great green valley glanced up in startled surprise as I suddenly loomed above them, explaining what I was looking for. They stood up, peered with me under tables and beyond the railing, said they were sorry not to see anything.
So: back where we started, empty-handed. My wife resigned herself to a third, futile scouring of the car, while I perused a shady spot where she’d fielded some texts. Nothing. A hundred feet away was a coffee shop we’d gone nowhere near.
“Anybody turn in some sunglasses?” I asked, leaning through the door.
“They sure did,” said a cheery young man with a broom, smiling like he’d been waiting all day for such a question.
It is a wonderful feeling to walk toward your sad beloved with pure joy folded in your hand.
A few thoughts, on happy reflection.
· A lot of people they’re not showing on the cable news shows are … good. Friendly and kind. Generous with their time, and respectful to each other.
· Some things we’re earnestly looking for are in places we’ve never been.
· God cares about people. People care about some very little things. So … God cares about some very little things.
Wherever you are this week … may you meet some kind strangers. Find what you’re looking for. And be reminded how tenderly, specifically, your God cares for you.
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