The Lightest Anchor

I’m on my hands and knees in my basement apartment, craning my neck to see the floor under my bed. I’m using my phone flashlight to locate the source of water I’d found on the floor. Surveying the small puddles that have seeped up through the seams in the laminate, my flashlight beam falls across something shiny. Sitting inches away from the water is a simple gold ring.

I pick it up. It’s thin but strong. I turn it over a few times, place it in my right palm and stare down at it. “Gnomes,” is my first thought. But as I keep staring, I begin to second-guess myself: aren’t gnomes known for taking things, rather than giving them?

I don’t have much time to speculate. The discovery of the water means a message to the landlords, a call to the insurance company, and, a few weeks later, a full move out of the apartment. I put the ring on my finger and get on with it.

In between phone calls to arrange logistics, I search for the ring’s owner. “Is this yours?” I text friends and family, with photo attached. No one claims it.

In the absence of even the faintest clue of its origins, I begin asking questions. Is it possible that I’m meant to have this ring? It fits me perfectly. I can’t help but think of what a wedding band represents, and I shyly wonder if God is trying to tell me something. Is this a promise?

If it is, it’s come at a good time. I dread moving at the best of times, when circumstances are ideal and there’s time to plan. Moving on a tight timeline, with strangers to pack your things and store them in a place you’ve never seen, not knowing when you’ll move back in again … this does not float my boat. All this happens as I’m beginning a new job with an aggressive onboarding schedule. The relocation transplants me to Ottawa, where I live with my mother for several weeks through the long, drawn-out end of winter.

Gradually, I become accustomed to the presence of the ring on my finger. It’s barely visible to others, but a comfort to me. I like that it’s always there: when I go to sleep, when I wake up; when I wash the dishes, when I’m travelling. Its steady pressure on my finger somehow reminds me that I’m not alone, an unassuming anchor in the sea of my circumstances.

Two months later I move back into the apartment, adjusting the items returned by the movers to their rightful places. At first, I’m glad that the ordeal is over; but gradually I become uneasy. The place feels smaller; I feel restless. The resolution I’d been longing for doesn’t materialize. I’d fully intended to stay in the apartment, but I slowly realize that this is no longer what I want. The relocation has revealed that this space no longer feels like home.

With a sinking heart I begin to explore the rental market. The available supply of similar apartments is priced significantly higher than what I’m used to paying. If I opt for something above ground – which is what I really want - it will be close to double my current rent. The search is demoralizing; I feel guilty at the prospect of paying more when a move isn’t strictly necessary. I look half-heartedly, dreading the inevitable decision.

One day, several months after finding the ring under my bed, I’m going through my jewellery box and find a set of three gold rings. Two are scalloped, but one is smooth—exactly like the ring that now lives on my finger. I suddenly remember purchasing the set four years prior to wear to a friend’s wedding.

On one level, then, that’s a mystery solved: I bought this ring. But on another, I can’t explain how it ended up on the floor under my bed.

That wedding was just before Covid—the last formal event I attended before the multiple lockdowns of the pandemic. There would have been no reason for me to wear the rings in the four years that followed. Not to mention the fact that the rings were purchased two apartments ago—they would all have been packed and moved together, with no explanation for why one should have been found alone under my bed, when I hadn’t been wearing the rings at all. I gaze at the silent witnesses in my hand and am none the wiser.

The apartment search is sporadic until a friend sends me a listing with hardwood floors, high ceilings, and an exposed brick wall that runs the length of the apartment. It feels dreamy, but out of reach: expensive, and with limited storage. I’m daunted by all the questions requiring answers to make it work. But despite my misgivings, I find that my desire to move has deepened. I want to say yes to this lovely new thing.

And somehow, everything seems to fall into place. The move happens on the coldest day of the year, courtesy of close friends in minivans and pickup trucks, and three jubilant children in snowsuits aged 7, 5, and 3.

The months that follow allow for a gradual settling in. There are still logistical challenges to solve, but I find that I’m okay with tackling them one at a time. I marvel that I can now fully extend my arms overhead during my morning yoga. My shoulders descend from their hunched-up position around my ears to their natural resting place. I breathe a bit more deeply and am thankful for this new version of my life.

One morning I’m sitting at my desk, about to sign in to a virtual meeting for work, when I notice that my right hand feels different. I look down to find that the ring is gone. I stare at my naked finger and feel a sense of panic stirring. I want to begin a search right then and there, but I’ll have to wait until my meeting is over.

During the meeting my mind shifts into investigative mode. I faintly recall taking the ring off my finger the night before and playing with it while I was on the phone. But surely, I would have put it back on afterwards? Because I have no memory of returning it to my finger, I begin to doubt that my recollection is real. Maybe I invented the memory of last night, and that wasn’t the last time I had the ring? Maybe I lost it well before then and I just wasn’t aware? In other words: it could be anywhere.

When my meeting is over, I leap from my desk and head to the couch where I’d been sitting the night before. I do a visual sweep of the floor; I look under the couch; I lift cushions. I pull the couch out from the wall. I feel a bit ill.

I expand my search to the rest of the apartment, leaving no surface unexamined. I go outside and scan the walkway leading to the entrance. Nothing.

I’m baffled and sad. I try not to imagine what it might mean that the ring is gone: have I somehow fallen out of God’s favour? How could I have been so careless as to lose something that I almost never take off? This sense of distraction and deep unease follow me around for the next two weeks. I inquire at the gym, in case the ring had inexplicably slipped off my finger. I am shown a lonely collection of found gold rings, none of them mine.

My friends listen with appropriate sympathy, but also with quizzical expressions. I’d figured out where it came from in the first place, right? It’s not a mystery anymore. Yeah, it’s a bummer to lose it, but don’t I have another one just like it? I don’t really believe in gnomes, do I?

I can’t explain it except to say that it feels like a loss. Something that should be here is gone.

After two weeks, I’ve mostly given up. I still feel a slight ache when I think about it, and the question is confounding. One night I’m getting ready for bed and am flossing my teeth. As I lean over to drop the floss into the wastepaper basket, I see a little glimmer of gold out of the corner of my eye. I look more closely at the bottom of the garbage can, lined with a white plastic bag. Right in the centre of the bag, where four folds come together, there’s a sort of pocket … and partially visible, peeking out from the pocket, is my ring.

I have goosebumps. This wastebasket has twice been emptied into a larger garbage bag since the day I lost the ring. It must have gotten lodged into that pocket in the plastic, which prevented it from falling out with the rest of the contents. But how did it get there?

I pick it up in wonder. Just as suddenly as it appeared two years ago, and without any explanation, the ring is back.

I know how this sounds; I may have endowed the ring with more meaning than is reasonable. It’s just an object, and an unremarkable one at that. The odds are fairly high that it isn’t the currency of gnomes. But I’m here to tell you that this ring has changed me.

This simple piece of jewellery tethers me to God’s presence. It surrounds my finger with a reminder of His faithfulness, and nudges me to look for the unexpected. I live with more wonder now, and consider what else might be found, if only I have the eyes to see.

Text: Jen McNaughton
Image: Joel Faber