Maybe it'll turn up

The way my daughter’s toys reappear in the most random places—plus the slow, sanctifying work of stopping the search for certainty and turning your gaze elsewhere.

Grateful for a husband who works in landscaping and irrigation, because it means he can sometimes bring home beautiful plants and greenery at no cost. This hibiscus tree has been a blessing to me in more ways than I can count.

It started with the letter “O”—my two-year-old daughter’s wooden alphabet puzzle piece. That piece went missing.

Frantically, I rummaged through the playroom, searched her playhouse nestled among stuffed animals, and sifted the low cube shelving at floor level, hoping adrenaline alone would help me find it.

Twenty minutes go by, and no luck. My husband notices his unsettled wife on a mission as he’s trying to wind down our daughter for bed.

“What are you doing?” He asks gently.

“The letter ‘O’ is missing from Olive’s alphabet puzzle, so I’m trying to find it.”

My chest caves in because, despite my best efforts, I can’t find the darn thing. The more I search, the more disoriented I become.

“Why don’t you take a break from looking and come play with us? It’ll turn up.”

In that moment, I have to swallow my pride because I know exactly what’s happening. I’m letting the inconvenience of a missing wooden letter “O” take up real estate in my mind, instead of noticing what’s right in front of me—my daughter and husband happily brushing their teeth in the bathroom.

There’s an unsettling tension in accepting that not everything is whole, put together, or perfect. When something doesn’t feel “complete,” “as it should,” or “just right,” it drives me mad.

I choose to stop searching anyway, letting that same tension sit in the back of my throat as I kiss my daughter goodnight before Daddy takes her upstairs.

Days later, on a random afternoon spent mostly on potty training, I found it behind the bathroom door— the letter “O,” tucked into a dusty corner. I couldn’t believe it. I was convinced the letter had been sentenced to lifelong estrangement from my daughter’s alphabet puzzle, lost in the vortex of other forgotten items my husband and I have misplaced over the years.

But then, there it was. A quiet sense of peace washed over me as I picked it up and placed it back into the “O” slot with the rest of her alphabet puzzle.

//

There was also the issue of her lost yellow stacking cup.

Again, that same dread and discomfort settled in my bones as I searched for the yellow cup from her rainbow set of eight stacking cups. I spent that evening looking behind furniture, digging again through the stuffies in her playhouse in hopes that I could mentally check this task as “complete.” An hour in, I gave up the search and assumed there was no use. People say kids lose things all the time, so why get upset when a toy that’s easy to misplace ends up getting lost?

About a week later, though, it also turned up. I wasn’t looking for it. I had forgotten about it, actually. I was mopping for the first time in a while, glancing into the hidden corners and crevices I overlook during an average day. And then I saw it: Olive’s yellow stacking cup, tucked out of plain sight behind the woven basket holding our snake plant in the living room, as if it had been placed there on purpose. I chuckled, bent down to pick it up, and carried it toward the playroom to reunite the others. All eight rainbow stacking cups were finally back together in perfect order. It was harmonious. For a moment, just a moment, it was well with my soul.

//

Then there was the incident of one of Olive’s“Bluey friends,” as we call them—these handheld plastic figurines of different characters from the kids' show Bluey. There are ten of them total, including Bluey herself. Every time my daughter asks to play with them, my senses are unraveled because I know it means one of the pieces will get lost before the day is over. A seasoned parent would probably tuck them away in the closet without their child noticing, so it’s out of sight, out of mind. But I just don’t have the heart to get rid of them because my daughter’s smart enough to ask where her favorite toys are, and these are one of them.

Either way, of all the characters that could get lost, it was Bluey’s turn to get the boot. “Where is Bluey??” my daughter whined. I tried to redirect her to all the other versions of Bluey she had to play with: Bluey coloring books. Bluey stickers. Bluey painting. Bluey plushies. Bluey, the TV show itself.

None of them satisfied.

“No, I want mini Bluey!” she told me. And when your toddler gets hooked on a toy, it’s nearly impossible to redirect them to literally anything else. I finally had to admit that we’d lost mini Bluey somewhere during playtime. Of course, that’s when she erupted. I didn’t blame her, though. If I’m being honest, it bothered me too that this carefully curated ten-figurine set was no longer complete. It was like an itch I couldn’t scratch, tingling at the surface of my skin. The lack of equanimity irked me in a way it probably shouldn’t have.

I don’t remember exactly how much time passed—maybe a couple of weeks? One Friday evening, I was doing my usual cleanup. I dug through the pockets of her diaper bag, pulling out the usual collection of leftover trash and clothes forgotten after playdates. That’s when my fingers brushed against the hard shape and texture of something unexpected.

It was Bluey, the figurine.

“Look, Olive, I found mini Bluey!” I called as she peeked out from her playhouse. No reaction at all. By then, I suppose she’d forgotten Bluey ever went missing and had accepted a world where the figurine simply no longer existed in her little reality. Meanwhile, I was certainly the one more invested in the “Bluey friends” reunion than she was.

//

This happens all the time with my daughter’s toys.

Stuffies, baby dolls, sippy cups, cherished trinkets—they all get lost in the kerfuffle of everyday toddler life, and yet somehow turn up when and where I least expect.

It’s interesting how things show up the moment you stop searching for them. It makes me think of that little cognitive exercise: “Don’t think about an elephant.” Suddenly, that’s all your brain can picture—an elephant. Science says it’s hard to suppress a thought once it’s been planted, especially when you’re told not to think about it. So in practice, it works better to redirect your attention elsewhere. We struggle to find what we’re straining to see. We can only see what we’re told to stop thinking about…strange.

As much as I try not to, I keep staring at a future that hasn’t arrived, as if looking harder will make it arrive sooner. I cling tightly to everything I believe must be resolved, located, or made whole so I can finally feel at ease. I search in a panic while my body keeps score—stomach cramps, throbbing headaches, a tight throat, and a dull heaviness over my eyes, reminding me I’m not where I want to be. What I want isn’t here yet, but the thought is already planted. I’m told not to think about it, and still, it’s hard not to.

I tell myself it’s focus. But more often than not, it’s fixation. I long for a reality that doesn’t exist, and, in doing so, become detached from the people and reality right in front of me. I’m tired of leaning on the false comfort of “when this, then I will” scenarios.

When this happens, then I will…

…relax.

…find peace.

…be complete.

…be fulfilled.

…be okay.

//

In a new single Olivia Rodrigo released called “the cure”, she explores this idea from an interesting angle, sharing how insecurities can persist even in the presence of a loving, affirming partner:

“And my head is full of poison, and my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream, you tried hard to suck 'em out
And it feels like medication, and it's good for me, I'm sure
But it don't matter how your love feels anymore
It will never be the cure

That’s all this turmoil is about, anyway, isn’t it? The angst, the upheaval over lost, unmet dreams.

I’m just searching for a cure.

I’m searching for medication to heal the poison in my head, the doubt in my heart, and the toxins in my bloodstream. When in reality, I already have the cure. I’m already united with the Person who restores all that is toxic and dead within me. I can find everything I’ve “lost”—hope to gain everything I yearn for, as I already have in so many ways, which I’m blessed for and not many can easily say.

But in the end, they are false antidotes—ineffective, fabricated remedies that try to seal a wound only eternity can. They may address symptoms, but they'll leave me searching for a void to fill, a discomfort to assuage, and a pain to lessen the sting of.

It feels complicated in practice, but the cure is simple: to turn my eyes elsewhere.

O, my heart and soul, what you long for you already have. Why are you still looking? Why are you still searching?

You fill your eyes with futile, fleeting pleasures that give you a sugar high but leave you starved for more. Shift your gaze and meditate not on your lack, but the fullness of refuge and strength and nearness we find in the character of your God.

Not thinking about the elephant won’t work. Notice, instead, the way the hibiscus tree in your backyard is starting to bloom. Hear the sound of piddling toddler feet on tile floors that once weren’t there. Hold firmly the hard-working, calloused hands of an almost decade partner who still manages to make your heart flutter when he glances your way. Let the crunch of a Honeycrisp apple make your mouth pucker as you giggle with your daughter over afternoon crackers, turkey, and soft cheese. Take in the fresh scent of summer rain, how it quenches Florida’s dry landscape. When it feels like the Lord is shutting out your prayers, consider all the unseen, unsaid prayers your soul cried out that you don’t realize He answered.

Forget the missing pieces to Olive’s endless toy sets, just forget them. Let go of the missing future you believe you’re owed, let it go. And see, truly see the people, faces, and lives you interact with every day as the gifts and miracles they are.

There’s a chance that what you’re looking for, eventually, in the Lord’s strange and sovereign timing, will turn up.

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As always, I’m grateful you’re here.

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