I am still praying for the family of that little boy. I think of those strangers so often that I know my conviction to pray for them is from God and that the family may be a Christian family.  I am convinced I will meet that little boy one day.  I am praying that our heavenly Father will send them indicators of his peace to comfort them, as sure and as concrete as my earring was for me.

It had to have begun with my generation because if I told my mother that I never wash my jeans unless they smell or there’s an obvious stain on them, she would not understand.  Yet, I know other women my age engage in this shameful practice.  We don’t iron anymore either.  That said, “Lord, let me remember the lesson of the earring.”

I ran away from home on my 51^st birthday.  Of course, my brother, Bubba, doesn’t know I was running away and I will never tell him.  He thinks I drove the three hours to his home in Palm City in order to spend our birthday weekend together, just because I love him.  Bubba is a paramedic who lives with his family in Palm City, Florida and our birthdays are three days apart.

In reality, I had concocted this elaborate get-away because I didn’t want any of my friends, one over-enthusiastic friend in particular,  to have an opportunity to take me out on my birthday.  I thought the plan was very clever. The scenario played out in my head like this: “Thanks so much.  Wow. That sounds like SO much fun but, I’m afraid I have made plans to go up to my brother’s so we can celebrate our birthdays together….Dang, though…really.”

At my gym, a few days before I was to leave for my weekend at my brother’s house, there she was, my enthusiastic friend.  Let’s just call her Pat.  When Pat spotted me at the gym, she jumped off her tread mill and ran to me with open arms. I’m not exaggerating.  She exclaimed, “Happy Birthday!  OK. You choose, Friday or Saturday….”

Well, here it is, the moment of my plan’s fruition.  I’m all excited. “I’m a genius,” I think to myself. I begin to smile, big. This is just GREAT.  But, before I can open my mouth to, oh so regretfully, explain that I will not be in town, Pat finishes her thought, “….of next week to go out for your birthday because this weekend Tom (let’s just call him “Tom”) and I are going to Ft. Myers for Kelly’s blah, blah, blah.” I tune her out.

“What?!  I can’t believe it!”  My mind starts racing.  “Darn,” I think to myself, “now I have to pretend to have to go to Gainesville next weekend in order to get out of this.  When will this end?” (My oldest daughter is a junior at the University of Florida in Gainesville, my most northern point of refuge.)  As I am fine-tuning my fabricated story for having to, sigh, long face, oh-so-very-regretfully, go to Gainesville next weekend, I think, “Wait a minute, idiot; you are willing to drive seven hours…..one way…. to Gainesville to get out of a two hour get-together with people who are willing to celebrate your birthday with you?  What is wrong with you?”  I decided it was just too neurotic to drive to Gainesville in order to run from what was inevitable anyway.  Apparently, I’m not quite that far gone yet.

Rational thought did prevail. but the fact of the matter is, there is a significant issue here.  As each year passes, I have more and more come to see the world as a mean place that is out to get me.  I am afraid of it.  My only defense is to try my best to hide from it and its inhabitants; this is my only recourse, my only control.

Well, my husband thought the whole situation with Pat was quite funny.  We did go up to my brother’s, as planned, and had a really nice visit with his family and him.  On the long drive home Sunday night, I was still feeling close to Bubba, plus, I was bored.  I began texting him about silly things.  He has a nimble mind and banter with him is always fun.

We texted back and forth a few times but then, he stopped responding to my texts.  After an hour or so, I received a text from Bubba, “Just got back from a call.  Father and his seven-year-old son were riding bikes. The son was hit by a car and died from massive internal injury. We still had to work him.”  By “work him” my brother was referring to rules of procedure.  So even though all the professionals on the scene knew the little boy was dead, my brother still had to perform emergency procedures on the child.

My heart broke for everyone. I envisioned the father of this little boy sitting on the side of the road that night with red and blue emergency lights blinking and lighting up his face, his posture and countenance.  I saw him watching his baby’s body being violated by those “procedures.”  I thought of that father having to be still while the police dealt with the person who had just killed his son.

Then I thought about that poor driver who has to live with the fact that he hit and killed this boy with his car.  I thought about the scene at the home of the little boy, the father and mother re-united, the long, excruciating days, weeks, and months ahead.  I thought, “Why, God?  Why would you do this to this family, to that little boy?  I just don’t get it.”  I thought of my forty-eight- year-old, baby brother and his job, the tragedy and horror he sees on a regular basis. I wrote back to my brother, “We are praying for that family, and you.  We love you.”   I cried silently as my husband drove home and I prayed.

When we arrived at home, we quietly unpacked the car, headed upstairs and began unpacking our bags.  After I had emptied of all my clothes, I saw a single earring lying at the bottom of my suitcase.  It was from my favorite pair, large sapphire in a unique swirl of gold with three diamond chips.  They were so “me.”  But one?  Why was there just the one lying there?  There was only one because there was something really wrong here.  I knew I had not packed those earrings this weekend; so what was it doing in my suitcase, lying there so all alone?

“Oh no,” I lamented.  Again, not exaggerating, it was a lament; I just knew this was not good.  I tore that suitcase up looking for the second earring. “What’s wrong?” my husband asked. “My earrings. This should not be in here. They’re my favorite. I didn’t bring it…”

I don’t think my husband really understood the babble but he got the gist, Wife is upset….something about a missing earring…I must help her. So he “helpfully” offered suggestions of places to look that, of course, I knew would not be harboring my missing earring.  I knew it would not be in my jewelry box, for example.  At my husband’s insistence, I looked anyway.  It was not there.  Duh!  We scoured our bedroom floor, under the bed, under the armoire.  I checked the pockets of the two pair of jeans I had brought on the trip (because, of course, we know better, but we all stick our earrings in the pocket of our jeans when they start to bug us, right?  Well, I do).

Not trusting that my fingers could feel a rather large and chunky earring in the pocket of a pair of jeans, I also turned the jeans upside down and shook them. Nothing. I started to feel anxious and stressed. I was worried that I would not find that other earring. We looked in the car; maybe it had fallen out when we stopped to gas up and I had rummaged through my suitcase to find pajamas to change into for the rest of the ride home. Nope.

I checked my purse, not there either.  I was getting more upset, angry and, of course, dramatic, “What’s the point of having nice things?  Fine. I’m just going to go out and buy a brand new pair…”

Wait a minute.  I stopped.  Actually, God stopped me because, believe me, this is way out of character. I prayed. “Lord, I’m sorry.  That earring is nothing.  Nothing.  Thank you for this family and the blessings you have given to us.  Thank you that we are all safe.  Father, my heart breaks for the family of that little boy. Lord, every time I want to fuss and stress about that earring I will pray for that family instead.”

Even though I knew that earring was nothing and my family was safe and I was blessed, I also knew me. I knew that earring would pop into my head…a lot.  I was right. So I prayed a lot for that family that night and in the days to come, and not just when I thought of my earring.

The following weekend, I had to go out with Pat and those poor unfortunates she had wrangled into attending my belated birthday celebration.  Now, I have already confessed to never washing my jeans, so don’t pretend to be shocked twice.  That evening, at my birthday celebration, I wore the same jeans I had brought with me and worn to my brother’s house.  They have also been worn at least a couple times during the week. They had been re-hung upside down in my closet after each wear.  Also remember, I had shaken them out the night my husband and I had been desperately hunting for my lost earring.

When we got home from my party I pulled off my jeans and “clink.”  I heard it hit the floor before I saw it.  Before I even looked down, I started jumping up and down like a child, laughing out loud, “Yea, yea!”  I knew that sound was my earring falling from heaven because we all know it was not in the pocket of those jeans.  “Thank you, Lord.  You are hilarious. And, yes, I get it.”  I don’t have to be afraid of living.  God has control of it all, all of it, every detail, down to the last earring. Of course, it’s a lesson he teaches us over and over again.  He patiently sends missing earrings to us throughout our lives to remind us that he has it all in the palm of his hand.

I am still praying for the family of that little boy. I think of those strangers so often that I know my conviction to pray for them is from God and that the family may be a Christian family.  I am convinced I will meet that little boy one day.  I am praying that our heavenly Father will send them indicators of his peace to comfort them, as sure and as concrete as my earring was for me.

God promises to comfort his children when they are broken hearted and, I know he will do that for them because prayer is actually easy.  God always says “yes” to our prayers when we pray for what he has already promised us anyway and he promises comfort and peace, whether it be from heart-wrenching pain or from our simple, everyday fears.

Jody Burmaster lives in Key Largo, Fla.