There were umbrellas, books, jackets, gloves and sweaters. And there was a Tupperware box to hold smaller things. Today it contained at least 50 items. Besides photos, scraps of notes and bookmarks, there were keys, watches, sunglasses and pieces of broken jewelry.

I was working at the lost and found counter at church. Most of the things were tagged with a date, and if they weren’t claimed in three months they were donated to a local non-profit thrift store. The trash, broken bits of jewelry, and torn clothing were tossed.

I picked up a key ring and stared at it in wonder. It had been in the box three weeks. These electronic car keys cost about $100 to replace. Don’t people realize when they’ve lost their keys? How do they get home? I hated to think of all the lost things that would never be returned to their owner.

“Excuse me…?” I looked up into the worried face of a woman who looked like she was ready to break into tears. She said, “I know this is impossible, but I lost the diamond out of my ring.” She extended her hand to show me the empty setting. “Did anyone turn in a diamond?”

I looked in all the corners of the plastic container, but sadly, there was no diamond. “When did you notice it was missing?” I asked her, “Where were you sitting?”

She told me as much as she could remember.

“Well,” I suggested, “They’re cleaning up the auditorium. Let’s say a prayer together right now, and then I’ll go tell the men to keep their eyes open for it.” Actually, they were more than “cleaning up” the auditorium. About 30 men were feverishly dismantling the huge room.  They were taking down the neat rows of chairs and setting the room up with dozens tables and chairs for a special ladies’ dinner that night. It was chaos!

I had very little hope that a diamond could be found, but we held hands and prayed; and the lady gave me her phone number and left. John happened to walk by just then, so I asked him if he would spread the word.

Less than three minutes later he walked back to the counter grinning. “You are not going to believe this!” He held out his hand and the diamond lay sparkling on his palm! “I told Chuck about it,” John explained, “because he was getting ready to vacuum before they set up the tables. There were gum wrappers and all kinds of little bits of trash on the floor. And then a minute later I walked into the auditorium he came up to me holding it in his hand!” John shook his head in disbelief.

As fast as I could, I called the lady who had lost her diamond. She had not even reached her house yet.

There was great rejoicing that day! Everyone was talking about the lost and found diamond. So many people were encouraged by the story. When something that amazing and nearly impossible happens, it gives you hope for just about anything!

A week later I was once again at my lost and found “station”. I decided to go through the plastic box and get rid of some of the odd bits of paper and pens and useless broken things. There was so much junk in the box that we could easily miss small valuable things. (Like a diamond!)

I began to make a little trash pile…a couple of torn book marks, a lipstick, a lego man, a some hair barrettes…I picked up a broken bracelet and started to put it in the pile, but then I reconsidered. The clasp was broken but maybe it was still important to someone. It was very pretty – with rhinestones all around like a diamond tennis bracelet. I put it back in the box.

“Excuse me, Andee?” I looked up to see Chuck. Yes, the same Chuck who had found the lost diamond the previous week. He stood there with his wife, Vickie, and they looked stricken. “Has anyone turned in a diamond bracelet?”

Hardly daring to hope, I fished through the stuff in the Tupperware container. “Is this it?” I held up what I had thought was rhinestone costume jewelry, and watched relief and delight wash over Vickie’s face! It was a real diamond bracelet Chuck had just given his wife for their anniversary.

To this day I am thankful for what I see as an example of the Lord’s interest in the details of our lives. Chuck’s faithfulness and honesty had brought hope to so many of us when we heard the story of a single diamond actually being found in the huge auditorium. And a week later the blessing was returned to him twenty times over!

I was startled when John suddenly began to pull the car to the side of the freeway as we were driving to church this morning.  I had been reading to him and I looked up in surprise, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m being pulled over.”

We sat in stunned silence watching the CHP officer make the long slow trek toward our car. The flashing lights on top of his cruiser circled round and round and round…

Just last night we had barely avoided a serious collision when a speeding car changed lanes abruptly, and forced John to brake very quickly and pull part-way into the next lane.  As we watched the offending car speed blithely out of sight we were shaken and enraged – “Where are the police when someone does something stupid like that?”

Now we knew where the police were.

The CHP officer was ever so slowly approaching my passenger side window.

We had been driving in the fast lane and come upon a pocket of cars following one slowly moving vehicle, traveling along at about 59 mph.  John had pulled into the right lane to get ahead of them, and apparently was so enthralled with what I had been reading that he forgot to decelerate.

I rolled the window down.

“Good morning, sir. The reason I stopped you, is that you were speeding. Were you aware of that, sir?

John made a peaceful, non-argumentative gesture, and admitted that he really had not been aware of his speed.

“And where are you going this morning, in such a hurry?” This time he looked from one of us to the other, so I took the opportunity to answer.

“We’re going to church and he’s a pastor.”

The officer took a step back and smiled with an exaggerated grimace. “Ohhhh.  I really hate to give you a ticket.  But I clocked you back there at 80 mph and the speed limit is 65. I really can’t let you go. May I see you driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance?”

“I understand.” John nodded, as he handed his license to the officer and I fished through the glove compartment for the other papers.

“So…a pastor’s wife.  How’s that?” he asked me conversationally.

“It’s all good.” I smiled.

Having gathered our papers, he started to go back to his car and then he returned to the window.  “I can’t let you go, but I’m going to write it for  less so it won’t be such a big fine.”

“Thank you.” John acknowledged.

The officer went back to his car and John and I glanced at each other.  Ouch. This was not going to be good.  Just yesterday we had decided on a certain amount of money to start a tax-deferred educational savings account for our grandson, Nathan.   Fines are no fun in any amount,  and this speeding ticket sounded like it was going to be expensive.

The officer returned to the window. “I can’t do it,” he said.  “I mean, you’re the man. You’re going to church and you help people…”

We listened in disbelief.

“This is a strange thing to ask you,” the officer continued, “but maybe it’s not.  Have you ever seen a White Buddhist Monk?”

We shook our heads. We had not.

“Well, you’re looking at one.”

He looked like the most normal, stereotypical CHP officer you could imagine.  But he went on to explain that he had gone to Tibet, and shaved his head and studied Buddhism – that he was actually a White Buddhist Monk.

We made some kind of show of interested acknowledgement, still stunned that he wasn’t going to give us a ticket.

“Now, how are you going to talk about this today?” He asked John with a grin.

John laughed and shook his head, a little at loss for what to say. “Thank you,” he said simply and sincerely.

“Be sure to tell people there are consequences to breaking the law,” the officer advised.

“So I guess we won’t talk too much about grace?” I ventured.

“Huh?”  He looked puzzled.

“You know, grace.  We broke the law and we didn’t get a ticket.”

“Oh no!” he laughed. “Tell them about grace. Let them know that we’re not all bad guys. But now, you’re really cutting into my ticket count.”

His eyes were already scanning the passing traffic as he gave us a few instructions about how to safely re-enter the freeway. Then he smiled and stepped back from the car and waved goodbye.

I have some chai here, if you’d like to try a sample…” John and I were strolling through the Modesto Farmers’ Market when the man spoke to us in a quiet,almost diffident voice. We had been kind of caught up in the color and clamor and energy of the Farmers’ Market, and when we turned to see who had spoken it felt like we were looking into an island of peace.

It was a spice booth – Mohini Indian Fusions. The owner, Rex Rabine, was pouring a cup of chai from a steaming urn. “Be careful,” he warned us, “it’s hot.” It was hot, and it was delicious – absolutely the most delicious chai tea we had ever tasted! As we stood sipping the tea, Rex told us how he prepared it, and he showed us which of their many spice blends he used to make it

Cinnamon, ginger, tumeric, paprika, coriander, star anise, cloves, fenugreek…It was fascinating to see the array of spices, attractively laid out for display.

I like my food spicy. And when I say “spicy” I usually mean “throw in lots of habañeros or jalapeños.” I think most people are like that – when we think about spiciness, the first thing that comes to mind is hotness. But as Rex showed us all the different spice combinations, and explained how they work together, I realized it has everything to do with taste – not heat.

We bought a jar of their poultry blend, which we sampled the minute we got home. It contained 12 different spices and no salt. And nothing with heat. As John and I stood in our kitchen tasting tiny fingerfuls of the spice blend, it felt a little bit like wine tasting. (A little bit.) We would concentrate, and try to isolate and identify the different flavor of each spice listed on the label. John commented that it is really an art to know how to blend the various flavors to make the single unique taste.

Mohini has lots of different jars of spice blends and few (if any) include hot peppers or chili. They do sell a jar of “Spicy Pepper Blend” to add heat to whatever spice you’re using. Or you can add your own dried or fresh chili pepper.

As Rex was telling us about the origin of some of the spices, and how they are used, it occurred to me to tell him about my friend Emily. Emily Cotton is a popular speaker at schools and Renaissance workshops. She bills herself as a Renaissance Storyteller and Scribe, and one of her most well-attended classes is Pirate Sails and Caravan Trails. Wearing a period costume, and drawing on enthusiastic audience participation, Emily gives out tons of fascinating information about spice trade during the time of the Renaissance.

Thinking of spice trade, it’s fun to see how different culinary cultures are opening up and becoming linked today. I’m half Irish and half Lithuanian, but my bulvinial blynai (potato pancakes) have acquired a distinctly Italian flavor since I have married into the Paladini family. And since I’ve become an honorary Italian, I’ve pretty much mastered the art of Italian cooking. Garlic, basil and fennel figure prominently into most of the things I cook. And now in recent years, a new spice route has opened up for me as I’ve begun to haunt our local Middle-Eastern Market and make regular stops at the Afghan food booth at the Farmers’ Market.

Back to Mohini: I think Rex is like me – he married ethnicity. There’s nothing Indian about him, but he’s an expert on all those spices of The Far East. His exotically beautiful young daughter looked a lot like the lovely woman, Mohini, whose picture stood on the counter. We commented on it, and he smiled proudly, “My wife will be joining us in about an hour with some food samples,” he told us. (“Hmmm…we just might have to walk back down here in an hour.” I was thinking.)

And we did!

The car was spinning and I was literally not in control. I saw the center barrier wall of the freeway coming toward me. People talk about how times like this seem to pass in slow motion and it’s really true. I was trying to remember everything I had ever learned about maintaining control of a spinning vehicle – and nothing seemed to be coming to mind. Except to pray. I remember saying “Oh Jesus,” and it was a prayer! One of the kids was screaming. And the big black pickup truck which had cut me off and caused the problem was speeding down the freeway off-ramp. I was aware of it all, but it felt like I was in a dream.

When the car came to a stop we had not hit the wall. Then almost as an afterthought, an oncoming car hit the passenger side of our car, and Monica’s face crashed into the window. The poor driver of that car had not been able to stop, valiantly as he had tried. The last thing he had expected to see that day was a car stopped sideways in his lane on the freeway.

As I think back on it I remember, almost irrelevantly, being sad that his crunched car was some kind of a beautifully restored older model with a gorgeous ornate grille.

This all came back to my mind as I had quiet time in my magic chair this morning. I was reading The Daily Bread and there was a story about an accident and a hit and run driver. How many times over the years I have thought about the driver of that big black pickup, and wondered if he ever thinks about that day.

So many times I have recalled it all with amazement. Our car was totaled, of course. And I don’t know about the beautiful collector car that hit me. But Monica’s concussion was the most serious injury in a crash that could easily have been fatal.

By the time the police arrived, my composure was on the verge of crumbling. I was second guessing every move I had made, and wondering if there had even been a big black pickup.

The police officer talked with me, and then – wonder of wonders – he told me that there were two witnesses who had stopped and had concurring accounts of the crash. One person was in a car up ahead of us, parked on the shoulder of the freeway. He saw the crash and pulled over to wait for the police. The other witness, now parked on the shoulder some way behind us had seen it all; but it was too late for him to stop so he actually got off the freeway and came back.

Both witnesses had seen the big black pickup, and one of them told the police officer he had never seen such skillful driving as mine. That cracks me up. I know I am not a particularly skillful driver and I know I was not in control during that event.

I’m unspeakably thankful to God for protecting us and guiding my mind and my hands and feet. And I am forever grateful to the two people, (who I never met) who were conscientious enough to wait for the police and tell what they saw. And I hope that the man who hit me was able to restore his beautiful collectible car.

I sulked my way across the Arizona desert.  Unshed tears of self-pity threatened to come to the surface, so I pressed my face against the window, ignoring everyone in the car.  I didn’t want to cry, but it just wasn’t fair…The car was very quiet.

We had been on a family vacation to the Grand Canyon and to a Giants’ spring training game. And now we were going home, but I wasn’t quite ready to get back on a schedule.

It had been a lovely, meandering sort of trip with no time constraints, except getting to the baseball game before the first pitch.

We were on the highway heading toward Kingman Arizona, where the travel book told us there was a motel with an indoor swimming pool.  We had all agreed that that would be a perfect grand finale for our vacation.

Then I saw the sign: London Bridge 17 miles  – “The London Bridge is right here in Arizona!”  I was so excited that every fiber of my history-loving-being began to jump up and down.  “It’s only 17 miles down that road…”

The London Bridge, swathed in romantic stories and English  elegance…If there was ever a made-to-order call for spontaneity this was it!

Tomorrow we’d be back to our normally scheduled life. What possible difference could it make if we got to the Kingman motel a few hours later than we’d planned?

John was very understanding, but very firm.  He did not want to take the time to drive out of our way to see the London Bridge. We were now on a schedule. And besides, we didn’t know what time the pool at the motel closed. “We’ll come back another time,” he promised.  I know he meant it, but really, what were the odds that we would ever again be on this particular highway at this particular turn-off?

So I sulked, miserable…knowing I was being a brat, and that knowledge making me more miserable.  I couldn’t get on top of it. The miles passed and the black desert night descended on us. John stopped the car (spontaneously) so we could all get out and look at the skyful of brilliant pulsing stars. We never see stars like that where we live.

I tilted my head back and gazed up, swallowed by Enormity. Perspective began to ooze in, and sooth away my sulkiness and misery. “How Great Thou Art!”  Miles earlier I had begun to realize my selfish attitude was putting a wet blanket on this last day of our idyllic family vacation, but now I was able to become centered and properly focused. “Thy will be done.”

Before long we arrived at the motel in Kingman, and although I was still a bit embarrassed about my long case of the sulks, I was almost back to my normal fun-loving self, and we had a happy and memorable family evening.

And now for The Rest of the Story: About a year later my parents moved to Lake Havasu City, home of The London Bridge. Yes, the very town to which that 17 mile side road led.

Needless to say, we have now been to The London Bridge – dozens of times.  More times than I can count.  We have eaten at London Bridge Restaurants, toured the London Bridge Visitors’ Center and purchased post cards and souvenirs from the little shops under The London Bridge. I have seen enough of the London Bridge to last me the rest of my life.

I try to remember this lesson when I get my eyes too firmly set on myself and what I want.  I can trust my plans and hopes and dreams – and even my disappointments, to God.  He has perfect timing, and he has plans we can’t even begin to imagine.

My parents near The London Bridge, Lake Havasu

“…the bridge was taken apart, each piece was numbered to aid re-assembly. The bridge was reconstructed in Lake Havasu City, and re-dedicated on 10 October 1971. The reconstruction of Rennie’s London Bridge spans the Bridgewater Channel canal that leads from Lake Havasu to Thomson Bay.”   http://www.golakehavasu.com/history-of-london-bridge.html