It never fails.  Whenever I lose something (which is WAY too often), I only find it once I’ve stopped looking.  On Christmas Eve, also known as My Wedding Day Planning Extravaganza, Mom and I grabbed a late afternoon table at Balthazar (or, as she refers to it, Balthazar’s.  Or Bartholomew’s.  In the neighborhood where she tells people I live, Soho.  I do not live in Soho.  Now I’m starting to understand why I lose things.)  I tucked my gift-card-from-the-boss-purchased bag of JCrew goods underneath my feet as we dug into a goat cheese tart with a side of fries.  Excuse me, frites, as the waiter corrected me.  Because we’re in France.  I was so giddy with the events of the day–dress modeling, champagne tasting–that I left the bag right there under our table and didn’t realize my mistake until we were exiting the subway at 51st and Lexington.  At 4:30 on Christmas Eve.  Dad and the BF were waiting at the Waldorf so we could get our worship, drink, and snack on at St. Bart’s and Belvedere, respectively.  Summary: there was no way in hell I was getting back on that train to go pick up my fake pearl necklace and two sweaters.  So I called, they said they couldn’t find it, and I silently wished the busboy’s wife a Merry Christmas courtesy of me and my boss.

Two weeks later I’m sitting on a sunny terrace in Santa Monica and E. from Balthazar calls to tell me they found my bag.  Seriously?!  Even for me, this is a lag-time record.  I had grudgingly given up all hope, determined to focus on what Christmas really means (Jesus, family, wine) and let go of my material loss.  And now!  I got to have both!  The real meaning of Christmas and the other one that I also really like!  I drank my coffee, looked at my fiance, and thought about how much my life rocks.

Then I got back to New York and felt the fifty-degree temperature drop.  And I threw on my bubble coat and wrapped my head in an itchy scarf and hat and headed to a doctor’s appointment at Beth Israel.  And I was reminded once again that things don’t always go how we plan.  There is nothing like a doctor’s visit, even a routine one, to remind you of your own weaknesses and mortality.  And though the little things that go wrong with my body don’t even come close to comparing with what some people I know are enduring, they feel like glitches in a system that, in my mind, should be running perfectly smoothly.  Not sure where I got that idea, especially considering this world and my life don’t offer past precedent for it, but I still view the negatives as anomalies, as things to avoid or fix.

So I headed across Union Square to Barnes and Noble, where I attempted my years-old, tried and true method of buying my new planner after the new year and therefore at a new, low price.  But someone beat me to the punch because they were all out.  As was Borders.  And I thought about how much we assume just by writing in those planners in pencil, let alone buying them at all.  How blessed I am to even have a year to look forward to.

Yesterday I was looking at the BF’s new Bible, which is a different translation than mine.  I read Psalm 46:10, which is familiar to many of us for the phrase “Be still and know that I am God.”  I often wonder what that’s supposed to look like, being still.  The translation in front of me read, “Stop your fighting.”  Which reminds me of what George Macdonald wrote and TK quoted last night, that the one principle of hell is, “I am my own.”  I know what that looks like: pushing my agenda at all costs, demanding that life turn out according to what is written in my planner.

Today I went to Balthazar and picked up my bag.  And as soon as I got home, I pulled out the necklace and watched it break in my hands.  Which is perfect, because the Sis got me a better one for Christmas anyway.  One that she picked out.  Funny how that always turns out better and means more.