The Lost George
We were rushing out to our car in the frigid cold. Suddenly our oldest son froze in the middle of the park and our entire day with him. With a quiet concern that masked panic, he wondered aloud, "Where's George?" George, his stuffed monkey. His constant companion since he could barely talk. At first, I said he didn't come inside the mall, but with horror I immediately corrected myself.
George did go inside with Jim. And now he wasn't with Jim. And I couldn't remember the last time I had seen him.
I cursed under my breath as I rushed back inside the food court to check the table where we had eaten lunch. No George. I ran to the one store we went to after we had eaten. I looked around. I asked the employees if they had seen a stuffed monkey. They checked behind the counter. "Sorry, no."
I went back to the food court and texted EA. "He's gone." Right after I had pressed send, I looked up and across the way I saw my seven year old son, his eyes red and his face soaked with tears. I wanted more than anything in the world to tell him that I found his friend. That he didn't have to worry anymore.
But all I could say was, "I'm so sorry, buddy." I hugged him and he sobbed. EA sought out the head of the custodial staff, trying to find if anybody cleaning up had found him. We found a security guard. We went to lost and found. He sat in EA's lap and cried while I looked. He sat in my lap and cried as EA looked.
We looked in bathrooms. We repeatedly retraced our steps. We checked with people cleaning up. We checked at the merry-go-round. We checked with employees at all the restaurants in the food court. Has anyone turned in a stuffed monkey? "I'm afraid not. Check with the maintenance staff."
We sat in the food court for what seemed like a hour or two. Jim wanted to watch Curious George on my phone. He sat in EA's lap and stared at the small screen while his brother sat beside him. My dad came back to the mall and rejoined us. He started double and triple checking places we had looked. He searched tirelessly.
We didn't know if some kid had just picked it up. So Dad and I eventually went in opposite directions and scoured the mall; each of us probably concerning parents throughout as we stared a hole in every stroller that passed us by. I felt absolutely and utterly powerless.
This is the part of the story where there's supposed to be a happy ending or some eleventh hour save. If this was a sermon, you would anticipate the preacher steering this into the Parable of the Lost Sheep or Lost Son. The concerned family rallies together, searches high and low, and finally they somehow find the beloved that was lost. We're wired to expect that.
That's not what happened.
And I'm not sure what to do with a story that ends without that happy ending. Or even when the ending subverts the lessons we always seem to glean from these type of stories. Because here is what happened: EA remembered a local toy store that might have the came kind of stuffed Curious George in town and told me to call them up. They had one, but only one and there was no way we could reserve it.
I hurriedly called my father-in-law to see if he could go to the toy store and get a replacement George. He did and then he brought the new George to us at the mall; he is basically the hero of this story. After watching Curious George on my phone, Jim was in better spirits. He embraced the new George and he's been pretty good the rest of the day.
The lost doesn't get found. The lost gets replaced. That is not how the story is supposed to go. And it messes me up a little. What does it say that something so beloved can be replaced? Or is this all just papering over the heartache that my young son is feeling? I don't know.
It's a messier parable. It has its moments that resonate: Our family coming together. The compassion that strangers showed my son. The hurt that comes from loss. But then there are those moments that I mentioned when there is dissonance. It's open ended. And I guess that's how life is; the happy, tidy endings don't always happen.
