There comes a moment in every parish’s weekly rhythm when someone, with a mixture of hope and mild resignation, wanders into the office and asks: “Has anyone turned in…?”
What follows is rarely simple. It could be a set of keys with a fob the size of a small canoe paddle. It could be a casserole dish, last used in 1998. It could even — yes — be one lone baptismal sock, barely large enough for a newborn toe, yet treated as a relic of great significance.
Thus begins the pilgrimage to the parish Lost-and-Found Bin, that mysterious wicker basket or plastic tub sitting somewhere between the coat rack and the photocopier — a kind of ecclesiastical purgatory for objects awaiting redemption.
Opening it is rather like discovering an archaeological dig site curated entirely by Stephen Leacock.
Inside you may find:
• A pair of reading glasses held together by determination and tape.
• A travel mug whose former owner has long forgotten both the mug and whatever was once inside it (and we shall speak of that no more).
• A child’s mitten, whose partner has clearly fled to join another congregation.
• Three umbrellas—one of which is only half an umbrella, but remains hopeful.
• A nametag reading “HELLO, I’M…”, filled out in pencil and then erased, as though the wearer had an existential crisis in the narthex.
I must admit that the most hopeful item I ever saw in our lost and found was someone’s walking stick which appeared in the days following our regular service that offers anointing and prayers for healing. Has someone “picked up their bed and walked”? Sadly, it was claimed the following day.
And of course, the aforementioned baptismal sock, which appears annually like a liturgical season.
But here’s the thing: the Lost-and-Found bin is not merely a collection of misplaced objects. It is a tiny sacrament of the human condition. Jesus told parables about lost coins and lost sheep — and if He’d ever visited an Anglican parish hall during coffee hour, I’m certain He would have added a few parables about misplaced bifocals.
The truth is, we all lose things — objects, yes, but also patience, courage, joy, and the sense of God’s nearness when the world feels particularly draughty. And in those moments, the Gospel assures us that God is even more persistent than the most determined usher who asks, “Is this yours? Are you sure? It was on your pew.”
God searches for us with holy thoroughness.
God notices us even when we are the ecclesiastical equivalent of a single sock.
God gathers us back, dusts us off, and says, with the divine equivalent of a smile: “I’ve been looking for you.”
And perhaps that is why the Lost-and-Found Bin brings such strange comfort. It is a small reminder that nothing is too insignificant to be sought after. Not even a mitten. Not even us.
Companion Prayer
God of the lost and lovingly found,
Gather us when we misplace our purpose,
restore us when we lose our footing,
and remind us that we are never forgotten,
never discarded, and always cherished by You.
Help us notice and recover the small things —
acts of kindness, sparks of joy, glimpses of grace —
that point us back to Your heart.
Amen