The Stone

Had a few moments of panic last week.

I'd lost my stone.

The very first blog I ever wrote for this site was about that stone.

My then 7 year-old son, Jake, had handed it to me on my 40th birthday. Just before I pitched it back into the ditch where he'd picked it up my beautiful wife said:

"He's been polishing it all morning."

So, naturally, I've been carrying it around with me ever since.

It's the greatest of all presents, right?

Well, as my birthday approached, I thought of it. I went to the spot in my car (the tiny space of my driver's side door panel) where I keep a lot of stuff:

A golf tee handed out at the funeral of a good man.

The thumb rosary my sister gave me when Jake was sick 13 years ago.

A small photo of my bro.

And the stone.

Everything else was there, but the stone was gone.

I spent the better part of a couple of hours searching through the car. I brought the seats forward. I looked in the glove box. I rifled through the stuff in the back of the car. Under my bed. In our laundry room.

It makes no sense where you look for something when it's lost.

I picked up the thumb rosary and said the prayer to St. Anthony.

Actually, it wasn't a prayer. It was more like:

"Where's the freaking stone?"

And my mind centered on possibilities.

Perhaps it had fallen out when I slammed the door.

I always park in the exact same spot in the driveway (see mental health blog).

I bent down and looked. (Not an easy feat).

And there it was.

All shiny and polished.

My great gift had been returned to me.

9 years to the day.