Lost and Found
Lost and Found
My kids school has a lost and found box, or for a parent it's a box of shame. Once or twice a year I go through that box wandering how in the world my children lost certain items. There are always some items in the lost and found box, items that make you scratch your head and ask the question "how in the world did that get there?" I've had the same thing in camp ministry. It's amazing how many pairs of underwear are left behind at the end of the week. You would think, how did a kid go home with no undies today. But the lost and found box sat in the corner of the office, a pile of hoodies, lunchboxes (with untold treasures inside, some of them nearly science experiments), water bottles, and the occasional lonely mitten. Everything in that box had something in common: it belonged to someone… but no one was coming for it. At least, that’s how it felt. Some items stayed there for weeks. Months. Eventually they were donated, discarded, or forgotten. What once had value became invisible.
I was going through the lost and found box when I had a startling thought about these items that once belonged to someone. Grief can feel like a lost and found box. When loss crashes into your life, hope doesn’t usually disappear in a dramatic explosion. It slips quietly into a corner of your heart. It sits there, untouched. Unclaimed. You know it used to belong to you. You used to exude the confidence in tomorrow, the anticipation of joy, the belief that life could still be good and that future was still worth the living, but now it feels like something sitting in a dusty box labeled “Lost.” And the hardest part? You’re not even sure you have the strength to go looking for it. Hope, once a normal emotion, once a dear friend, all of a sudden feels like the proverbial best friend who moved far away, it feels foreign.
The prophet Jeremiah writes about this in book of Lamentations. The one thing I appreciate about Jeremiah is his honesty with pain and sorrow. He doesn't gloss it over, he doesn't sanitize his pain. I adopted Jeremiah's heart when I started documenting my grief journey. If there is one person in the Bible who I resonate with, it's Jeremiah, the weeping prophet. the writer doesn’t sanitize his pain. He says:
“My soul is bereft of peace;
I have forgotten what happiness is…
My endurance has perished;
so has my hope from the Lord.” (Lamentations 3:17–18)
He doesn’t say hope is hiding. He says it’s gone. Perished. That’s an honest word. Grief can feel like hope died with the person you loved. Like your entire future has been canceled out because your person is no longer there. But then, in the middle of that same chapter something shifts. He writes,
“But this I call to mind,
and therefore I have hope:
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.” (Lamentations 3:21–23)
Notice what he doesn’t say. He doesn’t say, “I feel hopeful.” He says, “I call this to mind.” Hope, in grief, is often not a feeling. Sometimes you have to fight for that hope. It’s a decision to remember what pain is trying to make you forget. Your hope may feel like it’s sitting in a dusty box labeled “Lost.” But it is not lost to God. In grief, hope doesn’t always return as fireworks. Sometimes it’s more like someone gently tapping your shoulder and saying, “I think this belongs to you.”
Closing Prayer
God,
I don’t feel hopeful. I want to. I used to be and I want that back. But right now, hope feels like something I lost along the way. You saw the day everything changed. You saw the moment my world split in two. And if I’m honest… sometimes I wonder where You were in it. Your Word says Your mercies are new every morning. Some mornings, I don’t even want to get out of bed to see them. You say Your love never ceases. But grief makes everything feel like it has ceased. I don’t have big faith right now. I'm weak, I'm tired, and I'm confused. I don’t have strong words. I just have ache. So if hope is something I have to “call to mind,” then help me remember. When my thoughts spiral, steady them. When the silence feels loud, sit with me in it. When I feel forgotten, remind me I am not. If hope feels too heavy to carry, carry it for me. Give me just enough light for today. Just enough mercy for this morning. Just enough strength for the next breath. And when I can’t believe You are good, hold onto me anyway.
Amen.
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