The Wedding Ring (continued)

Last fall, I lost my wedding ring.  Of course, when I realized it was missing, I did all of the normal things—I tried to pinpoint where and when the ring was misplaced, I retraced my steps, and I prayed—all to no avail.

One thing I didn't do, was panic. This had happened before, both to myself and to my husband. Eventually our rings always turned up. And so, as the weeks and months rolled by, I joyfully, prayerfully held on to my assumption that the issue would resolve itself.

Then we decided to move. I was certain the process would shake the thing out of hiding. After all, I had prayed an awful lot. God was on my side. Surely combing through every dark nook and clandestine cranny of our home would expose the renegade ring. But it didn't.

My last night in our house was spent alone, working against a book deadline into the wee hours, all the while praying, "God, please restore my ring." But he didn't.

The following morning, early, I met up with my husband and son. They had slept in spare beds at a friend's house; our beds were packed in a pod, already on their way to New York. Rat terrier in lap, I followed my family—one fully loaded car behind another—to the cable company's home office in Savannah, to drop off a rented router and cable box. It was our final stop before crossing the Tomochichi Bridge out of Georgia.

On my way back to the parking lot, I stopped in the ladies room. There, bathed in a shaft of light, resting on the counter next to the sink, was a silver ring. It was obviously costume, meant for a teen-age girl, not worth more than a few dollars. It was so well worn, I was sure it had been purposefully left behind; if not, of course, I would have turned it in to the lady behind the counter. The back of the band was raw, brassy metal, but the silver plated front—a five-petal flower, missing the (fake) gemstone that used to sparkle in its center—shone like the sun. I glanced heavenward with a chuckle. "Thank you, Jesus." I knew he wouldn't let me leave Savannah without a wedding ring.

With a smile and somewhat shaky fingers, I tried it on. And it fit. Perfectly.

I will not leave you desolate: I come unto you. ~ John 14:18 ASV

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The Lady of The Lake View Inn

As we pulled into the roadside parking lot of the Lake View Inn, Gray sighed. "This kind of hotel makes me uncomfortable."

"Why?" I asked, knowing the answer, but wondering how he would put it into words.

"Because the hallway is out in the open. It makes me feel... vulnerable."

Vulnerable. Pushing open the door to the tiny office, I pondered his vocabulary. Not bad for a ten-year-old, I thought with a smile. Smiling made me feel better. I was apprehensive about the place, too. As a rule our family stayed for free at nicer hotels, thanks to points accrued on various credit cards—cards specifically chosen for this purpose. A thousand miles from our former home, at the mercy of lawyers and mortgage brokers and banks, our points ran out. We spent almost a week in a nice hotel as we waited for our pre-approved load to go through. Now that we were paying to stay in hotels with no closing date in sight, family morale was a bit low. Gray's word choice was a bright spot.

The lady behind the counter perked up when she saw me smile. She was pleasant, but very efficient, and seemed slightly irritated at my inability to answer her question, How long will you be staying?

The moment I asked her name—Mattie—and explained our plight, her demeanor changed. She rounded up a microwave and mini fridge from other vacant rooms for us, even thought I insisted we did not need them. But she had seen the grapes and the jug of milk in the back of the car when she was offering to help carry the luggage. Mattie was slight of frame, and obviously older than me. I refused to include her in the hauling of the bags, a precarious task that involved a rickety staircase. When it came to the appliances, though, there was no use arguing. She was insistent: our family would have them, free of charge. All that was required of me was to help schlepp them into the room.

"Are you from around here?" I asked over the top of the fridge, in an effort to be friendly. At this particular moment,  I was tired. Tired from the move and all events leading up to it; tired from a week of life spent in a free, nicer hotel (the kind with indoor hallways and impenetrable doors); tried of trying to meet deadlines while simultaneously entertaining child and dog in a small, enclosed space. I was also annoyed to be hefting a fridge that I did not want, in order to store battered grapes and milk that had been trapped in a hot car for several hours and needed to be dumped anyway. My effort to be friendly at this moment was very real.

"No," she said with a shrug. "I'm not from around here. I had a bad run of luck a while back, lost my job of twenty years. I'm in my sixties, you know. So I decided to move somewhere beautiful."

"Are things working out?" I asked, genuinely interested now.

"Well," she said, "I found this job, and they let me live here." She smiled weakly at me. She seemed lonely. And with that she left us in the little room with the lake view—me, and Gray, and the dog—and I hung my head, utterly ashamed.

Gray interrupted the silence. "This room smells like maple syrup." He wrinkled his nose to show his displeasure.

"You're right!" I said. "Smells good, doesn't it?"

And we prayed for Mattie.

WORK (Part 2): sacred / secular

Years ago I read Created for Commitment, the autobiography of Audrey Wetherell Johnson, the founder of Bible Study Fellowship. The book chronicled her amazing life, a life which got increasingly interesting after she prayed to Jesus, promising to serve his cause in the world, to do whatever he wanted her to do, to go wherever he wanted her to go, no matter what.

Shortly after reading her book, from the bottom of my joyful, committed heart, I prayed the same prayer. The next morning I woke up with a brick in my gut. What had I done? What would my life be like, now that I had given it completely to God—no matter what?

Thankfully, that morning my reading plan led me to Proverbs 10:22, The blessing of the Lord makes one rich, and He adds no sorrow with it. No sorrow. Completely reassured, I was able to face the day—and the rest of my life—with a happy stomach and a sunny smile.

I recently prayed the prayer again, as my professional future is a bit up in the air. Ms. Johnon was a missionary (one of the first ever to take the gospel to China), who went on to found BSF, a ministry that teaches the bible in-depth to hundreds of thousands of people world-wide. I am a children's book illustrator. After years of prayer and searching, I am convinced that God is not calling me into the ministry, at least not right now. Birds sing; I make pictures for kids' books. It's what comes naturally to me, and I love every moment of the work. It is a form of worship. Does the same prayer even apply to people like me?

In his introduction to the book of Nehemiah (The Message), Eugene Peterson wrote:

Separating Life into distinct categories of ‘sacred’ and ‘secular’ damages, sometimes irreparably, any attempt to live a whole and satisfying life, a coherent life with meaning and purpose, a lived lived to the glory of God... The damage to life is most obvious when the separation is applied to daily work. It is common for us to refer to the work of pastors, priests, and missionaries as ‘sacred,’ and that of lawyers, farmers, and engineers as ‘secular.’ It is also wrong. Work, by its very nature, is holy. The biblical story is dominated by people who have jobs in gardening, shepherding, the military, politics, carpentry, tent making, homemaking, fishing, and more.

For many years I have taught part-time to supplement my income as an artist. We are now a thousand miles away from that university, and the income it provided. My husband's new job, in this new city, pays less than his former one. In light of all of this, I may have to give up my career as an illustrator to take a full time job, doing something else. Something that pays more money.

I prayed that I would follow Jesus wherever he leads me, no matter what. I am trusting that he will bless my illustration career, but what if he doesn't? What if, instead, he leads me down another path? The answer: As long as he is leading, there will be no sorrow in it, because his blessing—in whatever form he chooses to give it—will make my heart and spirit rich. Amen.

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