Lost.
A toddler shoe, placed carefully on top of the fence by the playground
A ladies’ handkerchief, folded on the brick flower box by the apartment
A silver key, spiral lanyard clipped to the guardrail by the river
Known to belong to someone
To be valued by someone and therefore worth stooping to pick up
Even if I don’t know where they come from
Or how to get them home
They are worth more than to be trampled or lost in the crowd
To be noticed
To be lifted up
A prayer they will soon be
Found.
A ladies’ handkerchief, folded on the brick flower box by the apartment
A silver key, spiral lanyard clipped to the guardrail by the river
Known to belong to someone
To be valued by someone and therefore worth stooping to pick up
Even if I don’t know where they come from
Or how to get them home
They are worth more than to be trampled or lost in the crowd
To be noticed
To be lifted up
A prayer they will soon be
Found.
The way people in Tokyo, especially my neighborhood along this river, treat lost items is helping shape my prayer life. It started last year as I began walking even more than usual as part of my covid-world sanity plan.
There is a sense of respect and care for neighbor by lifting things up: don't let it sit on the ground, don't let it get accidentally stepped on, of course don't steal it, but simply place it on the nearest pole or railing. Not an extravagant act of love, but simple common sense. Of course that's what we do for each other's stuff!
How can this simple culture of care and community reshape how we pray? It's not a perfect analogy. Prayer is a mysterious and powerful thing. People are not handkerchiefs. God is certainly not an owner who realizes later, "Oops! Dropped that one!" And I'm so very thankful he is not.
But what if we believed there was meaning in lifting the people we walk by up in prayer ? What if it became an automatic, simple, common sense part of our every day walk?
