Lost and Found

Maybe I was working to prove that I couldn't be trusted in a crisis. Or that I could live without anything, since what I treasure most was now threatened. In any case I had new keys made, bought a new wallet, and instituted a daily schedule more rigorous than the one Gil and I already had. My task was simply to prevent the loss of more keys, more credit cards, more hats. But in the process I also hoped to prevent the loss of mind and faith.

The simple routines of our household have come to embody our staunchest faith in life continuing. To get up in the morning with our daughter, to start the blender and the tea kettle, to play "where's Mona?" under the table while we get her cereal and bananas are the greatest acts of faith we can exert some days. When a day ends well, when we have provided bath, breast or bottle, and bed for Mona, a home-cooked dinner for ourselves, and when afterward we load the dishwasher, throw diapers in the wash, fill the cats' bowls, turn out the lights, and climb into bed together, we thank God and welcome our well-earned rest. Knowing we know nothing, every ordinary day is an absolute revelation. In the morning we carry out our routine, and our routine carries us.

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