Life has a way of being routine, until something happens that makes you crave the boring predictability. A few days ago, my mom had a small stroke. We’re still in the stage of hospitalization, trying to balance medications, but she seems to have no permanent damage.
There’s something about illness that makes you focus on the details in front of you, much like the way I focused on not touching anything in the hospital.
Whenever I am forced to focus intently on the present situation, events outside of my understanding have a way of stepping in. I have always believed in things that I can’t touch. Growing up in a minister’s family, it was kind of important that we have faith in things unseen. You know, part of the job description.
So, this morning I spent a lot of time talking to God and asking my grandparents to surround mom with their love. As I was yammering away to spirit, I opened my jewelry drawer.
Years ago, my mom gave me her locket . . .
I saw the heart-shaped locket right in front of me. I’ve always been a big fan of the locket necklace, because it’s more than decoration; it’s a piece of jewelry and a tiny little briefcase into which you can put things. I find that fascinating, because I’m easily amazed.
My mom’s parents gave her the necklace when she was a teenager. Enclosed in it were tiny pictures of my grandfather and grandmother, one on each side of the heart. As a child, I played with that locket and admired its magical beauty when mom wore it. I loved how it was gold with pink flowers.
A few years ago, mom gave me that necklace, knowing how much it meant to me. The pink was all rubbed off, and my grandad’s photo had long-since been lost, but I loved it with all of my heart.
This morning, I stared at the gold locket and thought about my grandmom’s picture still safe inside, with a metal piece of the locket serving as her permanent nose. In that moment, I decided that mom needed her necklace more than I did. So, I pulled it out of my jewelry box and put it on. Right before leaving the house, I opened it up, because that’s what I do with lockets. Obsessively. I open and shut them.
As I opened it, a tiny piece of paper fluttered out of it to the floor. . .
I bent down and picked it up. It was the missing picture of my grandad.
I tried to figure out if the picture could have been stuck behind grandmom’s, but that was impossible. Her picture was glued in.
Something told me that Grandad was back, just in time to comfort mom.
Perhaps this seems far-fetched to many, and some of you might be tsk-tsking, looking for that pretty white jacket I should wear. But I’ve had too many of these synchronistic experiences to doubt them.
When I handed mom the locket and told her that her father’s photo was back, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. However, she was also on Xanax following her MRI, so that could have had something to do with her amazed expression.
My thought is to stay open to the power of possibilities.