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Send Me a Sign!

I live in a suburb of New Orleans and have been writing here off and on for 10 years. I have been married 53 years to the same crazy guy.

ask-for-a-sign
ask-for-a-sign

Diamond in the Junk Drawer

There are days when we need a sign. On those days where nothing makes the heart sing, life seems humdrum and tedious, you look at your spouse and wonder who this person is, the cat is nasty and hisses each time you pass, those are the days I ask for a sign. It doesn't need to be from the white guy in the sky with a long beard and white robe and staff; it doesn't even have to be a being of light. There are times when I need to know that there is more to life than matter and that some other energy, preferably divine, is watching us and is aware of our trials and tribulations and cares about us. Back in 2003, I had one of those days. I stepped out of bed and the cat showed me every tooth in his head, swiped at my feet, and ran for cover. Oh, boy, can't wait to start THIS day.

That morning, while drinking my morning coffee and before tackling the job of doing a super cleaning of the kitchen, I said a simple prayer and asked anyone who might be watching me or aware of me that day to please send me a sign so that I would know they were there and that I wasn't alone. Then I began my cleaning. My mood seemed to lift as I worked. I turned on some great music by the Eagles, turned the A/C down to 68 because I am perpetually suffering symptoms of menopause, even though I experienced it 15 years ago, and drank cup after cup of rich black coffee with copious amounts of powdered creamer. I wiped down cabinets, actually painted the baseboards because they were just too dirty to wipe down, and began cleaning out the silverware drawer. Finally, the only thing left was the junk drawer. Ours only gets cleaned out every four of five years, if that. It's where everything goes, the drawer for the things that just don't "fit" anywhere else.

Back-tracking a bit to make this tale make sense, in 1999, after work one day, I was washing my hands. When I looked down, I realized that the small solitaire in my engagement ring was gone. I was devastated. My husband just didn't get it. He kept saying he would buy me another ring. I didn't know how to make him understand that I wanted my diamond, the small simple diamond that we picked out while in college and living on a very short shoestring. It represented the good and bad we'd gone through; it represented "us." I cried a few times, then forgot about it and wore the ring his dad had given me that belonged to his mother. It was not the same.


Just Please Send Me a Sign

Fast forward back to the day from hell: I started taking things out of the junk drawer slowly because there is always an ice pick or two hanging out in there, and I didn't want to be impaled. The meat tenderizer, the hammer, the grater, blah, blah, blah. Then I noticed something shining in the bottom of the drawer. I didn't think much of it, assuming it was a bit of glitter or something left over from some holiday. I scooted things around and reached down for it. And it was -- you got it: my diamond. I was shocked to the point of sitting down on the floor, which is risky for me as I don't always get up easily.

Now, it stands to reason that that diamond could have been knocked off when I reached in the drawer for something. I get that. What I don't quite swallow is that I found it on a day when I was so wanting a sign to validate that watching presence we all hope is there, caring about what goes on with us. Did I just "happen" to chose that day to clean the kitchen and empty the junk drawer for the first time in years ? Did a divine instinct cause me to tackle the task that particular day? I ask for a sign about twice a year. What are the percentages?

My husband says: You lost the diamond when it got scraped off your hand in the junk drawer. You cleaned out the junk drawer and the diamond was there. The end. I'm not buying it. Let my husband and the whole armada of others like him live in a world where prayers aren't answered and signs never appear. I prefer to live in a world where one asks for help and it comes -- sometimes through the junk drawer! And to whoever or whatever sent me that sign, you are the thing that makes some days worth living, just knowing that there is something beyond what and where I am. Thank you for letting me know you're there.

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