A Sliver of Hope

Last Sunday, I lost something irreplaceable.

Every Sunday morning, I put on the same four rings: my wedding ring, a pinkie ring my cute little redheaded sister gave me, Kat’s ring, and a thumb ring. I rather like to think that I’m taking Diane and Kat to church with me. Trust me, I know how silly that sounds.

For ten years, that routine has been the same.

During church service last Sunday, I happened to glance down at my hand and immediately felt my stomach drop.

One ring was missing.

Kat's ring.

Now, any ring can be replaced. This one can't.

It was a ring my daughter was wearing when she passed away, and because of that, its value has nothing to do with gold or silver. It's one of those things that connects me to memories I never want to lose. Not that she's gone, but that she lived.

After that, it was hard to pay attention to the rest of the message. Thankfully, Pastor was winding down and service was almost over.

Losing that ring weighed heavily on my mind. I kept glancing at my hand and wondering where the ring had gone. I couldn’t help but look around the area where I was sitting.

No ring.

A few minutes later, as we sang the closing hymn, I quietly slipped out and went to the ladies' room.

Earlier, I had washed my hands and dried them with paper towels. Maybe I had accidentally pulled the ring off without realizing it.

I dumped the damp paper towels out of the trash can, shook them one by one, and put them back.

No ring.

Then I remembered getting a cup of water from the kitchen sink and using a paper towel to dry off the outside of the cup.

Had I lost it then?

I went into the kitchen, removed the lid from the trash can, and dug through coffee grounds, paper towels, cups, and other bits of detritus I chose not to look at too closely.

No ring there either.

Having now searched through two trash cans, I washed my hands and headed back out.

I looked around the church, letting my eyes scan along the walls where it might’ve been kicked.

No ring.

I looked near the entryway where I stood to gather my morning hugs or shake hands with people who had come to worship the Lord.

No ring.

I looked in my church bag, the one that holds my NKJV Bible, my Sunday School book, cough drops, an extra pencil, empty mint wrappers, pieces of a broken bracelet, and a few loose tissues.

No ring.

The more I searched, the more I realized there was a good chance I might never see it again.

“Make an announcement,” Mike encouraged.

Before everyone left the sanctuary, I made an announcement. “I lost a ring that’s very sentimental to me. If anyone finds it, would you let me know?” And later I told one of my church peeps, “That way, if someone’s already found it and put in their pocket, they might feel guilty and get it back to me.”

I refused to be sad. I refused to be heartbroken. Instead, I focused on something I believe very strongly.

God is in control.

If it was God's will that I got the ring back, then I'd get it back. If not, I would have to accept that too.

Still, I held on to a tiny sliver of hope.

Maybe it had gotten kicked around the room. Maybe it had been kicked behind the Christmas shoeboxes stacked beneath the information table near where I had been standing. Maybe one of the ladies who cleans the church would find it later.

When I got home, I took off the other three rings and walked into my bedroom.

I was putting them away when something caught my eye.

I stopped.

There, on my dresser, sat Kat's ring.

Right where I always leave it.

I just stood there staring at it.

Here's the strange part. In ten years, I have never forgotten to put on just one ring. If I forgot, I would have forgotten all four. That’s happened to me before. Putting on those rings has become as automatic as breathing. Yet somehow, on the very day I was convinced I had lost Kat's ring at church, it was sitting at home exactly where it belonged.

Did I get distracted and not put it on?

Or was it something more?

I honestly don't know.

What I do know is that before I found the ring, I had already placed the situation in God's hands. I had accepted that I might never see it again.

Then, when I got home, there it was.

Maybe that's the miracle. Not that a ring mysteriously traveled from church to my dresser, but that God reminded me that some things are in His hands, not mine.

I'll let you decide what happened.

As for me, I'm just thankful that Kat's ring is back where it belongs.

“Will you wear it again?” you ask.

Honestly, I don't know.

Some things are simply too precious to risk losing.