Around seven years ago I bought two identical tank tops — one was black, one navy. Both were equally awesome because they were fitted and had wide sequin stripes across the front in the same color as the fabric. Figured I’d wear the black one more, but that kind of became the problem. I wore the navy tank once and put it in the laundry. I know I wore it. I know it went in the wash. But after that it’s all a blur.
I needed it, went looking for it, couldn’t find it, had to change my whole outfit. Next time I needed it, I gave myself a little extra time to look for it thinking I was just in too big of a hurry the last time. Couldn’t find it, had to change my whole outfit. So it went on my list — you know, the list of projects you keep that are 100% dependent on how much time and energy you have to do them, ordered by your life’s priorities — and since one silly tank top is not as important as pretty much anything else, it took me a while to find the time to tear the house apart to find it. STILL no top. It was so unfair. I never needed the black one. Every spring/deep cleaning I continued to look for it. And I prayed. About my tank top.
Yes, I prayed about a tank top.
“When I look at the night sky and see the work of Your fingers–the moon and the stars You set in place–what are mere mortals that You should think about them, human beings that You should care for them?” (Psalm 8:3-4, NLT)
Who knows how many times I cleaned out my closet, added to my pile of donations, gave things away. But there was this one pile that for some reason I just couldn’t seem to get out the door. This week I decided I needed a few of those pieces back in my wardrobe (yes, I broke the cardinal rule of closet cleaning…don’t judge me), so I dropped them in the washing machine this morning. The load finished, and I pulled the pieces out to hang dry. I reached in the machine and pulled out the navy blue sequin stripe fitted tank top. I could not believe it. How many years have gone by? The only thing I can figure is that it must have somehow been inside one of the other pieces — you know, the pieces that have been hung and un-hung, folded, boxed, refolded and reboxed repeatedly without me ever feeling anything unusual inside/around/between/anything else them. Right.
So I’m standing in front of the machine holding the tank top, making noises somewhere between laughing and shrieking, scaring the neighbors who can hear the bizarre sound through my open back door, and my heart is bursting with joy: God answers prayer. Continue reading