by
Kathy Cannon Wiechman
Last
week during a dinner out, the subject came up about how sentimental some people
are. I am one of them.
I hold onto things
that belonged to my parents and grandparents, not valuable antiques, just
things that were theirs. I treasure “artwork” my kids made for me and still
hang Christmas ornaments they made in nursery school. I have every card and
letter my husband ever gave me. All precious reminders of those who mean so
much to me.
But
today the unthinkable happened. I lost something my whole family—whole extended
family-cherishes as much as I do. Kathleen’s ring. A teeny-tiny christening
ring.
Kathleen
was my dad’s younger sister who died at the age of two from a ruptured
appendix. I was named for her. And 38 years ago, when my grandma died, my dad
and his siblings decided to give Kathleen’s ring to me. ME! Because I carry her
name. I treasure that ring and wore it on a gold chain around my neck, the last
surviving possession of a little girl, a reminder of family and my roots.
Today
I went for a walk with my camera, snapping pictures of trees, flowers, and
country buildings. At one point, I noticed my gold chain had broken and was
hanging over my shoulder. The ring was gone! I looked down to the spot where I
stood when I first missed it. No ring.
I
looked inside my shirt and in my bra. No ring.
I searched the
area all around me before I called to my husband and we retraced my steps. I
had walked through grassy areas and along gravel drives, but I had photos of
the places I stopped, so we could follow the pictures back the way I had come.
Still no ring.
For two hours, we looked through gravel and searched a field of grass one
blade at a time, thinking about the family heirloom that had been entrusted to
me 38 years ago. How could I go home without it?
I have to confess that losing rings is not new for me. I usually wear
eight of them. My fingers contract when they get cold and a ring falls off. I
wave my hand to shoo a fly, and a ring goes flying. It has happened more than a
dozen times. AND I or someone else has found them again. Every time.
It once took 15 months for my engagement ring to turn up again, but it
did. It was in my house the whole time.
And a ring I was certain was at the bottom of Lake Arrowhead
This time because of the location I was in, and because of the terrain
and the size of the ring, I was afraid it was gone for good. But I couldn’t give
up. I sent up a few prayers (Saint Anthony) and pleaded with both Dad (gone now
21 years) and Kathleen for help.
We kept looking, but were about to lose the light, when my husband yelled
to me from a spot on a gravel drive. He held up his hand. There was no way to
see the tiny ring it held at that distance, but I yelled “Really?” and he
nodded. “Really? You found it?” My husband found Kathleen’s ring! I cried with
joy as I hugged him over and over.
The family heirloom is now safely tucked away in a jewelry box. I am not
sure if I should buy a new chain or keep the ring locked away. But I am
grateful to my husband and to any saints or deceased relatives who looked over
his shoulder and pointed him in the right direction.
