How Deeply He Loves Us

From the time they were little more than infants, both of my daughters adopted security blankets which went with them everywhere, from bed to the grocery store to Chick-fil-A. My oldest girl’s attempts to say “blankie” came out more like “blank-on-nee,” which eventually evolved into “Connie,” thereby ensuring that in our home, all blankets would thenceforth be known as “Connie.” We have had Polka-dot Connie and Purple Connie and Mom’s Connie and even Harry Potter Connie, but their treasured baby-size security blankets, of course, have special Connie status. As they got older, I attempted to convince them that Connie didn’t need to tag along on every outing or, if Connie came along on an outing, she could at least be left safely in the car and not dragged into shops and restaurants. When my older daughter’s special Connie was somehow lost between flights during a trip to Germany, the devastation was deep and wide. So when the opportunity arrived for a potential repeat with my younger daughter’s Connie, it was a crushing blow.

We’d been out and about all morning. It was fairly warm, we’d been on a hike, and the girls were a bit tired, but they were determined to spend a little time in our local independent bookstore, one of our favorite places in all of Memphis and a near-weekly haunt. When we arrived, my little, who is now five, insisted on taking her Connie into the store with her. I acquiesced, albeit reluctantly, as I could see how tired she was and I wanted to avoid full-blown tears. It wasn’t until hours later, back home and preparing for bedtime, that I realized I hadn’t seen Connie since we entered the bookstore. In that moment, it felt as though my heart dropped to my toes. I tucked her in with a backup Connie, soothed her with promises to go back to the store in search of Connie in the morning, and went to my own bed for a restless night. How could I have let this happen again?

The next morning, I called the bookstore as soon as they were open and inquired. The helpful bookseller on the phone put me on hold while he checked the lost and found. No Connie. I knew we had left it there, though, so I got in the car with my older daughter and went in person to search. The children’s book buyer, who knows us by name, was working, and she helped me look, searching every cupboard and crevice at every workstation where a small, crocheted blanket could be stashed. I visited the children’s section, poking into nooks and crannies, and the bathroom, which we’d visited at one point the day before. No Connie.

The children’s buyer, Wilson, encouraged me to contact Joanne, one of the store’s employees who also knows us by name. “She has a knack for finding lost items,” Wilson said. “Let me get your number and a description of the blanket, and I’ll tell her when she gets back from lunch.” I agreed to this plan, gave Wilson the information, and left the store. I was downcast and a little teary.

A little after 1 p.m., the time when Joanne was due back at the bookstore, I felt a hard nudge in my gut. Call her, it said. Talk to her yourself. Right now.

Without hesitating, I obeyed. I dialed the store, Joanne got on the line, and I explained the situation. “What does it look like?” she asked. I described Connie in detail–crocheted from now-dingy white yarn with a few pastel stripes, a couple of sizeable holes and repaired places–clearly some child’s well-loved scrap of blanket.

“I’ll mount a search,” she said. “Give me a little while, and I’ll call you back.”

I hung up, feeling indescribably better. I’d placed the situation in the capable hands of Joanne. If anyone could find Connie, I felt sure, it was her.

Ten minutes later, my phone rang, a local number I didn’t recognize. My hand trembled as I lifted the phone to my ear. A call back this quick could only mean one thing.

“Harmony? It’s Joanne. Blanket found.”

“You’re kidding,” I said. “Where was it?”

“It was found by another customer in the bathroom.”

I was bewildered by this–I’d checked the bathroom myself–but simply told her I was on my way. When I entered the store for the second time that day, Joanne was waiting for me. She handed me a plastic bag with Connis inside. “Wash it,” she said.

“I can’t thank you enough,” I said. “You’ve redeemed my mom failure today.”

It wasn’t until a week later that I found out the rest of the story.

I was child-free this time, arriving for some browsing time outside the children’s section for a change, and the store had just opened. Wilson was standing behind the checkout counter.

“I heard you got the blanket back,” she said.

“Yes!” I said. “You were right–Joanne found it.”

“Did she tell you the whole story?” Wilson asked.

“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “What’s the whole story?”

“A customer had thrown it away–it was in the bathroom trash. Joanne and Eddie, the general manager, searched the dumpster, found the trash bag from the previous day, and the blanket was in it.”

I was speechless. At that moment, Joanne walked up. I turned to her. “Why didn’t you tell me the whole story?” I asked.

“It was a miracle,” Joanne said. “After you described the blanket to me, I realized I had seen it being thrown away. I was in the bathroom washing my hands, and I saw a customer with this wad of crocheted yarn in her hands, and she tossed it into the trash. I thought, That’s kind of weird, but until you called, I didn’t know what I’d seen.”

A few minutes later, I was hiding between the stacks, choking back sobs. My mother-heart had been seen, cared for, protected. By the staff of the local bookstore, and through them, by my Father in heaven, who “gently leads those who have young” (Isa. 40:11 NIV). What boundless, unearned, beautiful grace.

That hard, gut-level nudge to call Joanne was clearly the Holy Spirit. He knew where Connie was. And he knew Joanne knew, and that her care for us would be great. There’s simply no other explanation.

This is one of the things I love most about God–the mysterious ways he gets involved in our minutiae and makes his love and care for us known. I love his big demonstrations of love and faithfulness, too, but it is in the way he comes into the little things in our lives, like a child’s lost blanket, that we can know how deeply he loves us. Because he cares about everything that happens to us–everything. His love is like a flickering light in the darkness, a light that never burns out. He doesn’t solve every little problem or deliver every lost object back to us, of course, but when he does, he ensures we know it’s by his grace.

Harmony Harkema has loved the written word for as long as she can remember. A former English teacher turned editor, she has spent the past twelve years in the publishing industry. A writer herself in the fringe hours of her working-and-homeschooling mom life, Harmony has a heart for leading and coaching aspiring writers. She is the owner of The Glorious Table and cohost and producer at The Relatable Homeschoolers podcast. Harmony lives in Memphis with her husband and two daughters. You can find her at HarmonyHarkema.com and on Instagram @harmonyharkema.

Photograph © Brianna Santellan, used with permission