Things that disappear

Here are things that regularly disappear in my life:

1. Socks. They disappear. At least one sock disappears; the other one hangs around as a lonely soul. We used to have a plastic shopping bag (would you like paper or plastic? -- that kind of bag) hanging in the laundry. It was filled with single socks with lost mates. There's nothing you can do with them. You can't throw one out, because you're always fearful the other one will show up the minute you do.

I'm absolutely certain: when I throw pairs of matched socks into the dryer, only unmatched single ones come out. It's a hopeless mystery.

2. Mechanical pencils. In my line of work, you're constantly underlining stuff in books: Good points, questionable points, references to be cited later. Underlining these items in pen is something like a traffic offense: it's a permanent record. So you underline in pencil.

But the pencils disappear. In my travels to the Right-Aid or the supermarket, I regularly pick up yet another pack of cheap mechanical pencils -- because I know they'll all be gone in a few days. In my current pack I'm down to 2 pencils. I have no idea where the others went.

3. Cell phones. Thankfully, this item doesn't disappear forever; it plays hide-and-seek. Valerie just went through a week without knowing where hers was. She didn't worry about it (which impressed me to no end observing the crisis from afar; she's a woman of peace. At least she frets about different things than I do). Sure enough the phone turned up.

Anyway, whenever I'm looking for my cell phone, I think of The Clapper. Isn't that the thing where you clap your hands and the lights turn on? For all the gadgetry they put into cell phones, why couldn't they put The Clapper in it?

4. My cat YoYo. He, of course, is now gone forever. But he once disappeared for days in hide-and-seek fashion. YoYo was a housebound cat, so we knew he was in the house somewhere. But where? We were about to fly to Ohio, so my neighbor Cori kept searching the house, staying in touch with me on -- ahem -- on my cell phone. So Cori's been into my attic; she's crawled through my crawl space. ("Hey, check if he's sandwiched between the front door and the storm door...!" that sort of thing over the cell phone).

Finally on our way back, the plane lands in Denver and I get a message from a sobbing Cori: He's back! I found him!

How I wish I would get a call like that again!

I miss Yo-Yo terribly. He'd be sitting right here now, with his paw on my arm so I wouldn't be able to type.

I'd give all the mechanical pencils in the world to have you back, YoYo.

Logos2Go

James 4.14 ... you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.

Psalm 90.12 So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.

Joel 2.25 I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten ...