A Male Who Can Find What’s Lost

    Look up the word trauma in the dictionary. Maybe you’ll find my new definition: “(trah’-muh) 1. the sudden realization by a woman that she is acting like a man.”

    I was recently in a gift shop, picking up a supply of candles and other smell-good things. I cruised the whole store, but couldn’t seem to find my very favorite citrus and sage thingie for my car. The saleslady finally approached and asked, “Can I help you find something?”

    “Well, I was looking for the citrus and sage car air freshener,” I replied.

    “It’s right here,” she said, plucking the little plastic parcel off a hook which was not 12 inches from me and directly in my line of sight.

    “How could I have not seen that?” I asked. “This is AWFUL – I have become my husband and my sons.” Trauma.

    The saleslady’s eyes were bursting with compassion; I knew instantly that she was a wife and/or Mom and was grasping my dismay. Truly I ask you — what house can stand if the woman loses her ability to find what’s lost?

    I’ve talked to other women who are part of the universal sorority, I Ama Wifa (if you’re interested in joining, just marry a man), and I know I am not alone in my utter bewilderment that roughly half the human race – the male half – can’t seem to find anything once it is put into a cabinet, closet, drawer or refrigerator.

    Just the other evening, our family was sitting down to eat dinner and I was more than delighted to be in a seated position after an exhausting afternoon. Having just parked my hindquarters on the chair, I was dismayed when my husband, Joe, went to the fridge to search for some salad dressing. That little voice in my head said, “Just go ahead and get it for him – he’ll never find it.” But I answered my head, saying, “Oh, surely he can find it. The salad dressing has been on the same shelf for 25 years.” (Note: Not the same bottle of salad dressing.). “No,” that little voice whined again, “you might as well just get up and get it for him – he’s NOT gonna find it by himself.”

    I heard bottles clinking, Tupperware thumping, and aluminum foil rustling as my husband plumbed the nether regions of the fridge.

    “I guess we don’t have any salad dressing,” he said.

    “Of course we have salad dressing – it’s right there on the door,” I wearily replied.

    “No, it’s not. We don’t have any.”

    “Yes, we do. It’s on the door. I’ll get it.”

    “No, that’s okay. We just don’t have any.”

    With quite a dramatic flair, I heaved myself out of my chair and clump, clump, clumped over to the fridge, where in less than 1.6 seconds, I located the allegedly non-existent salad dressing.

    I gave Joe “the look” and silently marveled, “How in the world does this man solve complex computer problems every day?” as I clump, clump, clumped back to my seat at the table.

    “Well … it was turned around backwards and I couldn’t read the label,” he pathetically fired back.

    For those who feel I am picking on my poor mate over some rare and isolated circumstance, let me say a big fat, “I don’t think so.” Variations on the salad-dressing scene have been played out in my house so many times, I can say my lines while male hands are still grasping the pantry door or refrigerator handle. Now multiply it times three – the number of males living in my home – and you’ve got a picture of my life as a finder of all that is not really lost.

    I must say that I am decidedly NOT a feminist or a male-basher. I love my males. And I certainly have no problem or qualms about all the references to God that are male in nature (Father, Son, Jesus, Lord, King, etc.). In fact, I find much comfort in those descriptions of God.

    But when I think of God as a primarily male figure, perfect though He may be, I have to say I’m a bit surprised about how good He is at finding lost things, particularly people who’ve lost their way in life.

    “I once was lost, but now am found.” A miracle anyway you look at it.