The Things We Lose (and Find) Along the Way
Field Note: The Slow Work of Remembering
I have worked in plenty of places and spaces over the years. One spot that always stuck with me was just outside my old office, a constant flurry of comings and goings.
But tucked away to the side, a quieter drama unfolded: the lost property box. It wasn't just the usual suspects, the orphaned trainers, the unclaimed hats. There were always a few oddities that caught your eye.
Lost property always has a story to tell. (I know this not just from YouTube or Instagram, but from plenty of real-world experience, trying to return items after camps, church retreats, student trips, and all the rest.)
A single, brightly striped sock.
A dog-eared book marked halfway through.
And once, if memory serves, even a rather bewildered-looking rubber chicken.
These silent witnesses to distraction, these small abandoned treasures, often brought a wry smile to my face. The other day, while passing by another random lost-and-found collection somewhere, a familiar thought resurfaced: Isn't life itself a sprawling, often bewildering, lost and found?
Over the years, we all mislay pieces of our lives, often without realising it at the time:
The solid footing of certainty.
The comforting rhythm of routines we assumed would never change.
These opportunities we meant to seize but somehow let drift.
The easy connection with friends we meant to call...tomorrow.
And yet, amid all this inevitable shedding, there is also a quiet process of rediscovery:
In uncertainty, a deeper trust can take hold.
In the frantic pace, a new appreciation for simply being present can blossom.
In the ordinary, small sparks of joy can still be found. The warmth of unexpected laughter, the quiet beauty of a twilight sky, the simple comfort of a familiar path.
Sometimes, I wonder if the Kingdom of God, the realm just beyond our immediate sight, is also a kind of cosmic lost and found. A place where nothing of true worth is ever truly lost, merely waiting to be found again by a grace that persistently calls us home.
And when the weight of what feels lost grows heavy, or when the joy of a rediscovery feels fragile, these words offer a grounding truth:
"Don't panic. I'm with you.
There's no need to fear, for I'm your God.
I'll give you strength. I'll help you.
I'll hold you steady, keep a firm grip on you."
(Isaiah 41:10, The Message)
So whatever you carry today, whether the ache of something missing or the quiet joy of something found, may you know you are seen, held, and loved beyond measure.
Grace and peace,
Mike
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