Aselin

Losing stuff is traumatic. Depending on what you lose, the trauma level increases.

Years ago our family awoke to the fact that our beloved hamster "Jumper" was gone. Living up to his name he had escaped from his cage on a high counter and at some point leapt or fell off into the oblivion of the house. The chances we were going to see Jumper ever again were slim to none.

Searching high and low, with the kids calling his name, which still makes me laugh. No, he was not a retriever hamster who came when he was called. We searched and searched. As time went on, Jumpers primary owner became more and more distraught. I was sad the hamster was gone, I was more sad at the prospect of finding a stinky dead hamster somewhere weeks later.

After all we could do, we knelt in prayer as a family and asked for divine help finding Jumper. Minutes later Jumper was found, safe and sound in a cup inside the pantry. The reunion was joyous.

Last night the same child wisely carried $90 around in their pocket. Of course, at some point the cash disappeared. Between feelings of anger at the irresponsibility, frustration at the wailing, and sympathy for the loss we searched for the money. Again, we knelt in prayer, and asked for help finding the money. We took apart sofas, looked behind furniture, went through trash bags to no avail. The trauma was palpable.

Continuing the search to the garage I crawled around on my hands and knees looking under the cars for the errant wad. The reality was, if we didn't find the money here then it was lost out somewhere in the world where its return was less likely than Jumper. Opening the passenger door I get inside and start to rummage around when suddenly there was a scream and a squeal of delight as the missing funds were spotted wedged inside the door frame.

Joy, singing, dancing, the reunion couldn't have been better.

As we reentered the house I mentioned to the child that they might want to show some appreciation. Immediately thanks overflowed to us as parents. This wasn't exactly what I meant.

Eight years ago our little family was working at the church. As us as parents scrubbed the building our toddlers played on the basketball court with other children. When it was time to go, our son was missing.

Not alarmed, we searched the building with a number of other people. We searched, and searched, and searched, and searched... there came a moment when all of the grown ups involved looked at each other and realized the two year old was not in the building. A group ran outside to search the surrounding area, I told hubby I was calling the police.

This was trauma.

Without hesitation hubby dropped to his knees and asked for help. I was a wreck, too distraught to think straight yet needing to keep thinking.

Hubby stood up from his prayer, walked directly into the women's restroom where I had been working. There, in the last stall, perched on all fours on the toilet was our missing son. Everyone who had searched the restroom, and it had been about eight adults, had gone through and looked under the doors. From where he was perched you couldn't see little feet.

Tears overflowed, gratitude welled up in my throat. Gratitude for divine help, for answered prayers, for my wise husband. I expressed gratitude for it all. And, gratitude that I had decided to do a good job on the toilets since my kid was hiding from the search party because he was having too much fun dipping his head in the toilet and flinging the water around the stall.

The reunion was still sweet.