Lost

Eventually You Must Find Your Way Back

Have you ever gotten lost? I mean really lost, even for a short time? I have.

Have you ever searched for a child who wandered off, maybe only for a few seconds, and felt your knees give out? That debilitating panic that zaps all the free-flowing oxygen and takes you right down?

I once looked for about a half hour for my 8-year-old and her friend who were out riding bikes in the driveway and disappeared. Our piano teacher was in the house waiting for my daughter to come sit for a lesson when we noticed she was nowhere to be found. I tried to reign in my fears for the first few minutes, convincing myself that she was just out of earshot for the moment. But after calling her many times, I started looking down the street and asking neighbors. No one saw the girls. I got in my car to drive farther around the block and over to the little friend’s grandmother’s house since they could have ridden over there.

Again, no luck.

Soon the piano teacher left with a nervous request to call her when I found the girls and give her an update. My legs functioned as designed underneath me for a while, but as the minutes ticked by and a few neighbors joined in the search, I began to feel the air leaving my lungs in short, little gasps. As my husband drove up from work, he could tell by looking at me that something was amiss. He questioned with just a look, and I told him I couldn’t find our girl.

“How long?”

I couldn’t fathom that it was going on a half-hour by that point. This was not like one of those times your little one hides under the clothing rack in a department store and you can’t see her for a split second. Even that second is enough to shoot adrenaline, like steam, right out the top of your head.

A half-hour feels like an eternity.

“We’re calling the police,” he said. “Now!”

I can certainly fully empathize with my own mother. Indeed, I was initiated into the club of basic motherhood—mothers’ thoughts go immediately to the worst, and they can’t even breathe until they get their child back in their arms.

Back when I was also about 8-years-old and on vacation in Iron Mountain with my family, my older brother offered to take me on a motorcycle ride. He was not one of those doting big brothers who took his little sis on adventures very often, so on such a rare occasion, I jumped at this idea. And it’s not like we would have to make conversation since I would be sitting on the back of the bike, arms around his waist over the whir of the engine while we cruised the forest trails of the upper peninsula. My brother was a man of few words anyway.

For the first hour, the ride was exhilarating. The beauty of nature peeking around every tree and the feeling of freedom clinging to us as we buzzed up and down hilly roads. But soon, the sun seemed heavy-lidded and began to give in to its sleepiness, dimming our path. My brother kept turning this way or that but was not getting us back to the cabin. He never said a word, so it took me a while to realize we were lost.

The atmosphere changed like a sinister deceiver beckoning us deeper into the woods.

By some miracle, my brother finally found the right trail and sheepishly motored up to the driveway of our cabin. It was now dark. Our mother was pacing with a look on her face that burned into my brain and is still visible today. The tears flowing down her cheeks did not match the anger and strength of her shrieking directed at my brother.

“Where have you been? I thought a bear got to you! You had your little sister with you. Why did you stay so long?”

She didn’t realize that my brother did not do this on purpose. It did not occur to her that he was lost, especially because he didn’t really defend himself. Like an overconfident teenager, he just pretended it was his plan all along. He got us home by dark.

Mom held me for a long time that night.

It felt good to be found.

Back when my husband was about to call the police about our daughter missing, I found her and her friend, embarrassingly, right in our own house. They had constructed a fort by tipping the bed mattress just to a slight degree over the bed frame and covering it with heavy blankets while they innocently played with barbies underneath. They did not hear us calling, as most of the search was outside anyway. I cried. And the girls just looked at me like I had lost my mind.

Both being lost and experiencing even moments of searching is unnerving. Strangely, we can experience this during other kinds of losses too, can’t we?

Sometimes it feels like falling through a patch of ice you thought for sure was frozen solid, and then you’re soaked through and must climb out with stiff limbs. It takes a while to regain your bearings. But eventually, you can.

You will.

[Note: I have written a book dealing with just such a feeling of loss and finding your way back. Publishing in the near future for readers on a search for self & inner peace.]

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