“Shawnelle, do you have the keys?” Lonny called, from my van, which was to-the-hilt full with boyhood.
I heard him through the open window and poked my head out the back door. “Sure,” I hollered. “Gimme a minute.”
Then I raced to the bedroom and rooted through pockets. Soft brown corduroy jacket? No. Sweatshirt I'd worn to soccer? Nope. Jeans I’d tossed over the back of cozy chocolate wing chair when I’d grabbed my workout pants? No go.
Black purse? Basket overflowing books? Craggy pickle crock on the porch? Uh-uh.
The. Keys. Were. Lost.
I put on my best smile and meandered to the van. Lonny and I have been married a long time.
He knows to keep a spare.
A few minutes later, saved by Spare’s Security, Lonny and the boys set off for town. I returned to the house, the first of Mama-Time to be spent hounding down those keys. Why was I always losing things? Library books. The skeleton key to the front door. My glasses. My camera.
Lost was not good.
As searched the school room, peering under Saxon math, stacking Zay’s alphabet binder with Gabe’s tattered readers, my mind wandered…lost meant Sam disappearing at the mall, as a toddler, still stuffed in the down jacket he was trying on for size. Lost meant the basketball game when we’d cheered our voices faint and Grant missed a free throw. Lost meant Gabe’s slow, sad tears when his allowance, twisted tight in cellophane bag, went missing at the fair.
But is it possible, that lost could be a good thing? The question stirred my spirit.
What about lost in My Word?
I thought about those times, pulling through His Word, when a new truth or promise had been revealed. My spiritual lungs wound fill with fresh air and my heart would pump fast and I knew that the Spirit was speaking (thank you Jesus) to me, just me, with life-giving grace.
Lost in prayer?
Times of fellowship so sweet that I could almost feel Him near my skin. Times when holiness comes so close and I want to be drawn closer, closer until I’m complete.
Lost in My grace? Lost in My love?
Grace and love twined together so tightly, and although it’s wrapped around me, it’s too deep and strong and wide for me to comprehend. But oh, the times when I catch a glimpse, on the face of my child, in the hands of my husband, in the goodness of a friend or an evening hushed and still. In forgiveness, in freedom, in forever, because of His love.
Maybe lost is not a bad thing. Maybe it’s the best of all.
I was still pondering when I slipped my hand under the loveseat and my fingers met the cold, hard ridge of my keys.
I was grateful.
Yet I knew, in being lost, I’d discover much, much more…