A little over a year ago I lost a gold locket that has been in my family for more than a century. It belonged to my mother, my grandmother and probably my great-grandmother.
I "inherited" it after my mother's death in 2002, never changing the pictures of her and my father in the early days of their marriage that were inside.
I searched for the locket for many weeks after it went missing. At first, I thought I had simply misplaced it. I checked pockets in closets and dresser drawers many times. I retraced my steps to restaurants, stores and parking lots. I got down on hands and knees to look under furniture, car seats and my desk at work.
Finally, I accepted that it might be lost forever and considered it one of those golden mystical mysteries of life.
It had come to me at a time of many losses. It had stayed until I was well into a journey through family history that explained so much: My need for a sense of roots, place and community. My deep sense of connection to the land. The generational ripple effects of love, war, compassion, forgiveness and atonement in the unending cycles of birth, death and regeneration.
Perhaps, I told myself, the locket had been found by someone who needed it more than I.
That reaction surprised me. No angst. No guilt. No mourning. So noticeably different from my usual attitude toward loss of anything or anybody dear to my heart.
The locket returned a couple of Saturdays ago.
I'd just come home from Munson Medical Center after spending time waiting with the family of a dear friend undergoing five hours of delicate surgery. A surgical waiting room can reveal so much -- love, compassion, faith, friendship, truth, meaning. We were such a stew of hope, faith, fear, optimism and prayer-ful bravery as we sat talking. Relief rushed through when word came that the surgery was over and things looked good.
Cold with exhaustion after I got home, I grabbed a jacket I rarely wear from the closet. I buttoned it up and put my hands in the pockets to warm them. I felt a wad of Kleenex in one, wrapped around something round and hard, like a coin. I saw the gold chain as I pulled it out.
I can't adequately describe the feeling. Awe, maybe. Reverence, for sure. Love and gratitude, you bet.
A friend, who is a fan of O. Henry short stories, suggests that this is a symbolic tale about how we can search far and near for something that is always at home.
Maybe. It is also a story about something so much greater than us.
Loraine Anderson can be reached at 933-1468 or landerson@record-eagle.com
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