Things We Thought We Lost

Opals and Advent

In the top drawer of my dresser is a small box holding a ring with no stone.

It was just about a year ago. Life was chaotic. Changing more quickly than the season. The color about gone from the trees and our lives. I had returned from a two-week whirl wind trip to my condo in Florida, getting it ready to go on the market. Leaving behind a home and dreams in the making. Here in Michigan my mother was facing an aggressive cancer diagnosis. Returning home was the right decision. It was also filled with loss and made in the anticipation of more.

One late November Sunday my mother insisted on going to church. I knew better than to argue. Anxiety was high. Nerves on edge. Like that lone yellow leaf on the tree in the backyard, I felt her slipping away. Wanting something to cling to, I put on the opal ring, the one I gifted her years prior for Mother’s Day. While I was in Florida she set it on my dresser. I am still not sure why. Looking down at my right hand, the opal a symbol of our connection and commitment. A reminder of brighter, better days.

Getting out the door and to the car was not easy. There were tears and tense moments. But we made it. As I put my seat belt on I felt my heart breaking as I noticed the ring. The stone—the opal—was missing.

I cried. I gasped. When my mother asked what was wrong, I simply showed her my hand, the ring with no stone, the bent prong once holding the opal in place. She said in a calm weak voice, “don’t worry. We’ll find it.”  Barely able to speak, I asked, “but what if we don’t? What if I lost it?”

I got out of the car and searched in, around, and under my seat. Nothing. I checked the ground outside the car. Nothing. I retraced my steps from the house to the car. Nothing. I checked inside the house. Nothing. I put the empty ring in my wallet and we went to church. An unusually silent ride. I do not remember the worship service. I remember spending the afternoon alternating between frantically searching and hysterically crying. I lost it. And I almost lost her.

She spent months in hospital rooms and a rehab center. When she finally came home, the house became a clinic, with nurses and therapists in and out every day. I was a daughter and a 24/7 caregiver. I have never told her this, but when she was in the ICU on a ventilator, unable to communicate, I wore the ring to the hospital.

In a strange simple way I found strength in that empty ring. Strength to be present for her and with her. To advocate for her needs, humanity, and dignity. I found patience, gentleness, endurance, balance, skills needed for dispensing meds and treating wounds. I found the ability to ask for and receive help. Peace in a storm. Wisdom. Acceptance. The ability to embrace rather than resist our reality. Persistence to navigate a broken health care system. I found that together we could face anything; cancer, death, and lost opals.

This morning for the first time in a while I thought about the ring. Stone-less in a box in my dresser. I thought to myself, maybe this afternoon I’ll go look in the car for it. And then I thought about other things I thought I lost.

Seven years ago, late November, on the first Sunday in Advent I sent a letter to the denomination I was serving, coming out and sharing that I was surrendering my credentials rather than continuing to subject myself to institutional harm and hypocrisy. I was waiting for a lot, but no longer for the church to change. The decision was liberating and the best one I could have made. And it was deeply painful and covered with loss. I felt like I was losing everything, at times like I had lost the will to live.

It did not happen immediately or without challenges, but today I can say what I have found is far greater than what I lost. Those losses were real and at times excruciating. There are still times the wounds crack open. And I have found a life I was not sure would ever exist for me.

I have found new ways to live my faith. Those first few years after leaving the church, I feared I lost the means and even the right to follow my tradition. Advent has always been my favorite liturgical season. I struggled with the high expectations of Christmas and found meaning in the ritualized waiting of Advent. But now I wrestled with how to do Advent outside of organized Christianity. How would Advent look, feel, sound, taste when I was not regularly part of a church?

In the midst of a year of loss and waiting, I have found renewed appreciation for Advent, for naming and honoring our questions and fears, longings and desires.

This Advent, starting November 29^th, Wednesdays at the Well will focus on the lights of the season; hope, love, joy, peace, and the beloved. Each week will include a letter addressed to one of these lights, and an invitation to engage the lights more deeply in ways that are meaningful to you. My intention is to turn words into water that will stir and guide. That you will find what you thought you lost and discover what you thought was impossible.

My mother and I are going to journey Advent together. We even bought new candles. We both experienced immense loss this year, but we did not lose each other. We both found things we believed beyond our reach. The empty ring a symbol of how full we are and how filled we continue to be.

I did not lose God or access to Advent when I left the church. I found new ways to encounter the holy and sacred all around me. I found the glow of my own light. I found a path lit by the lights of the season and a warm place to wait. I found a faith that shines like a ring with no stone.

10 Camels. Advent 2023. Wednesdays at the Well on Substack. Bonus poems and prayers on Facebook and Instagram.

With water, wonder, and waiting,

Rebecca
& 10 Camels