Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. (Hebrews 11:1)

My husband and I spent this weekend unpacking the remaining boxes from our move, unwrapping the pictures that still sit on the floor waiting to go on the walls of our new house. I scrambled through reams and reams of packing paper already piled in our garage, waiting for a trip to the recycling center (The movers spared no paper when it came to packing—they even double-wrapped a single wash cloth. I kid you not.).

An irreplaceable treasure had yet to surface, and I fiercely hoped I had simply overlooked it among the remaining boxes.

In 1999, my mother painted a matching china vase and oval box for me in a beautiful rust color with two chickadees on each piece. The oval box had a lid and base, and Mom had drifted the leaves from the lid down one side of the base to connect them visually. I have loved it ever since she gave it to me and thought it was one of her finest works of art.

I was excited about where it would “live” in our new home, because the wall color seemed to match the set perfectly. But a sickening feeling began to fill me as we unpacked box after box, and even revisited other, already-opened boxes, until I could no longer deny it.

The lid is gone.

The set as it is today.

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