I’ve never received a text message that sent such cold ripples through my body.
We were out of town a few weeks ago for a wedding. We stayed in a hotel – our daughter’s first time – and I had gone out to do some crate digging at local record stores while she and her mother took a nap before getting dressed and heading to the church. When I’d left them, they’d been each in their own double bed, sound asleep. Two hours later, across the town in a shop by myself, I received that text from my spouse.
“I hope yr kidding” I texted back. But the chills seeping into my body could not be mollified by a mere text, so I called.
“She was still asleep when I woke up,” she told me, “so I got in the shower. I heard the door open as I was getting out, I thought it was you. She’s not here, I was hoping you’d taken her somewhere.”
“I haven’t been back,” I said slowly.
“I don’t know what to do. Please get back here now.”
I knew it would take me fifteen or twenty minutes to get back to the hotel, and I had harshly practical realization that if things were not okay within that time, they would never be okay. She had to be in the hotel, right? I mean, where would she go? What bad things could happen to her in a hotel? Of course, someone could snatch her up and take her away, but honestly, what were the chances that there were child predators prowling the hallways of a mid-class family hotel hoping a child would wander out unattended?
But what if she wandered outside? What if she wandered into the street? What if this was actually the very day that a child predator really was staying in the Holiday Inn?
“Found her” came to me before I even started the car. Then: “In the lobby in her pjs” with a frowny face emoticon.
(There’s really no emoticon that adequately captures the overwhelming mixture of reassurace, irritation, dread, and thwarted proleptic grief that comes with finding your lost child. But the Germans probably have a word for it: meinKindGottseiDanknichtwidertun.)
When I got back to the hotel room, my spouse met me at the door. “Don’t scold her,” she said. The story she got from our child is that she woke up, thought we’d left her, and went down to the lobby to wait for us. Why didn’t she check the bathroom first? Who knows. But when my spouse rushed into the lobby in wet hair and dirty clothes, after frantically calling down the hallways of two floors, she saw our child by the window, and the two tearfully reunited, apparently with equal amounts of fear and relief. There she’d sat, in a chair by the window, in nothing but her pajama top and underwear, clutching her stuffed orange kitty and watching, forlorn, for a familiar car to pull up to the door.
Everyone who has heard us tell this story says something like, “Every parent has to have that experience when they lose their child. May this be your only one.” Amen and amen to both statements. Yes, dear Jesus, let that be the only time we feel that kind of gut-crushing panic. But also, yes, universe, thank you for giving me a taste of that feeling. It is humbling and grounding to be reminded of my mindlessly fierce love for my child. Scary as it was to face a few eternal moments of fearing the worst for her, it is a touchstone I can go back to in those moments when she is driving me crazy. Seriously: thank God for the luxury of her driving me crazy by splashing me at bathtime; for the beauty of her refusal to sit still and use her fork; even the maddening fits and tantrums become reasons for rejoicing – we found something we might have lost.
Jesus, the Christian religion’s perfect avatar of a lost child found again, tells a parable about a woman who loses a coin and turns her house upside down to find it. When she does, she throws a party with all her friends to celebrate. “Rejoice with me,” she says, “for I have found that which I lost.” Commentaries will attempt to explain what made that one coin so valuable (She was poor! It was her dowry! It’s just a story, lighten up!) , but Jesus explains the meaning by saying that heaven rejoices with equal measure over just one sinner who repents. Or, in other words, that God feels this way about all of God’s children when they are lost and then found.
I know there are times when I have felt left behind, times when I woke up and felt God – or Whoever – had gone away. And like my child, I didn’t stay put or check obvious places, because waking up alone in a strange place is disorienting and frightening. So I wandered to a place I thought I was likely to be found, looking out into a scary world, exposed, pitiful, deserted. The next time that happens, I will remember to take with me the knowledge that even in those lonely moments when I feel most forsaken, there is a divine and holy spirit frantically searching to find me.
I grew up in an evangelical community where I often heard the aphorism, “If you’re feeling distant from God, remember that you’re the one who moved away.” I suppose that might often be true; my child was the one who the left the hotel room, although her mother did get up to take a shower. But I have compassion and understanding toward my child who, in her confused and startled mind, made a decision she thought best. If we move away from God, it’s not because we’re wicked, wayward sinners; it’s usually because we’re bewildered and afraid and uncertain. And if we move away from God, it’s good to know that God will then be storming through the building with wet hair and dirty jeans, calling out to find us.