It was a rare warm day on the beach of Lake Superior. There were no rolling waves or cutting white caps. The sun shone on the near white sand, the air free of biting black flies. The Hart clan was gathered, all four siblings and spouses along with many of the cousins. For those who know, this was also a rarity. There was conversation, shared food, and recreation. And while this may have been enough to make this an inimitable day, an item emerged from the Lake that “never gives up her dead” to make this day even more noteworthy.
My cousin’s husband, Tom, had been lounging near the shore, letting the soft sands and warm waters of the Lake slip between his fingers and toes. In the tranquility of this oasis, he stopped as he encountered a metallic item. Standing, he held a watch. To the astonishment of those gathered, my dad identified it as a timepiece he had lost several years ago. Despite the furious waves of autumn, the harsh snow pack of winter, and the treacherous ice floes of spring, the watch had not only survived intact, but it had remained, buried, in front of our cottage. This alone was an unimaginable phenomenon given the forces of the wild Superior. But more was to come. For when the watch was dried and wound, the ticking hands began again to circle the dial.
I invite you to ponder and sift this image through your personal lens of belief. For me, Tom’s find is a powerful metaphor of hope: While we may seem to have lost something precious, there is renewed life, often in inexplicable ways.