For the third time in a row, I questioned my status for being on the downhill slide into senility. Tuesday was fairly busy with my usual meeting of a ladies Bible Study at my church. I’d received a ride with a neighbor, so left with her, making sure I did not leave my water bottle, an act I’d repeated enough times to bond with Phil, the church maintenance man. He’d started checking for the presence of my infamous blue water bottle whenever he saw me leaving.
Imagine my disdain when I realized, upon arriving home, that one of my gloves was not in my pocket where it belonged. After a thorough search through purse and other pockets, I bemoaned the idea that I had left it for Phil to rescue me again. I prayed that I’d find it, and sure enough, when I left the next morning, I spied it frozen and flat as a pancake, lying on the driveway where I’d dropped it.
That very night at my son’s home as I prepared to pick up my grandson from youth group, I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. Because of her fondness for her gramma, my granddaughter was coaxed away from her tears to watch me leave through the window while I waved at her.
When I reached the car already to leave, I had a sinking feeling as I reached down for my water bottle, and realized I’d left it inside. Oh no, now I’d have to undo the ceremonial leave-taking with my granddaughter, upsetting her and her parents once more. Oh well, with my failing memory, there was no way I would remember it later when I brought my grandson home. So, apologizing profusely, I reentered to grab the pesky bottle.
I’d earlier consoled my son who was dealing with feelings of inadequacy as a provider. His mother-in-law and I had helped out with brake work needed on their only working car. I assured him that the time would come when their aging mothers would someday need assistance, as well. Then it would be his turn to rescue. He must have thought the time was drawing much closer after observing my forgetfulness.
The very next morning, I was picking up my grandson for school, due to his lack of transportation. I locked the door to my condo and thought I’d plopped my keys into my pocket, as usual. I was preoccupied with mentally planning the day’s schedule. On the elevator, I felt for my keys in my pocket, but try as I might, all I felt was a crumpled Kleenex. I patted myself down and then began to panic while I unsuccessfully dragged my fingers through the pockets in my purse. What on earth had happened to my keys?
Realizing the lateness of the hour and the looming appointment taking my grandson to school, I reversed course and returned to my condo on the fourth floor, wild-eyed and breathless. Oh, Praise the Lord! The blessed keys were laying innocently on the pathway to my door, just where I had absentmindedly dropped them. Halleluiah! Now, if I could just arrive at his house and not make him late. I usually had at least a five-to-ten minute wait until he’d thrown on some clothes, crammed a cap over his hair and grabbed his backpack. I prayed for a miracle: that by some act of grace, he would be almost ready when I arrived.
Guess what? My prayers were answered. In a rare moment of promptness, he was close to ready, so after saying a quick praise to God, we were out the door and on our way.
Mission accomplished, I went home after a quick trip to the bank with several thoughts rolling around in my mind: was I really going wacko with all my mishaps with forgotten and lost items? How could I deal with this? One thing for sure was on my agenda. I was going to clean out my purse. With my exploration of its multiple pockets, I realized it was more than time to do so. A fairly large pile of expendable items were gathered, including some Christmas program schedules and some receipts I needed.
Besides the result of humbling me, what other factors could I glean from the experience? Maybe making a list like we’d had for my husband prior to his passing for all the items we needed to take with us when leaving. I refuse to let this defeat me, so Lord, let me find the keys to remembering.