I’ve lost a contact.
I mean, it’s here somewhere, but I just can’t find it.
I did this morning what I always do.
Unscrew the right (blue) top of lens case.
Retrieve tiny blue-tinted plastic sphere on my right index finger.
Gently roll it between that finger and thumb.
Rinse under running salt-softened well water. (I’m supposed to use sterile saline. He shows me all kinds of gross photos of Acanthamoeba keratitis at every checkup.)
Hold edges between thumb and forefinger as I squirt some Boston Simplus multiaction solution.
Shift lens to tip of index finger, and pop the lens into my right eye.
Blink and dab fingers on hand towel.
Then repeat–removing blue top for left eye.
I’ve been known to mix them up. The right lens often ends up in the left eye. I don’t know how I do that, but I do know that the right is for reading, so if I close my left eye and can see from the kitchen window the black writing on the yellow “stop ahead” sign up the road, I know I’ve got them in wrong. Sometimes I switch. Sometimes I don’t bother.
This morning as I left the bathroom, I winked with my left eye and realized I couldn’t see anything with my right.
Well, much of anything.
I rubbed around my right lid with my finger. Nope. Nothing poked anywhere.
I backed up on tiptoe and returned to the mirror to inspect my eye.
So I began the slow methodical hunt with the intensity of the woman who searched for the lost coin.
I hung my head over the sink and ran my fingers over and through my hair.
I looked over and ran my fingers lightly over my shirt front and sleeves and the front of my jeans.
I checked my slipper tops and insides and tops of my socks.
I inspected in the sink, the counter, under the rim, the door fronts, and then dropped to my knees–lightly.
I said a prayer–or ten–while I was down there and mentally balanced the checking account.
You know where it is. Help me find it. Pleeeeeeeeese.
I scanned the floor, ran my hands over it and the small rug, then lifted the rug and shook it gently.
Then began the slow removal and light shaking of clothing, piece by piece.
I started the whole process over again with a flashlight.
Then I remembered the time I actually placed one contact on top of the other and did not discover it until the end of the day.
So I spent a good 10 minutes trying to split the left contact into two without luck.
I don’t have the patience of the woman who searched for the lost coin until she found it.
And she had 10 coins. I only
have had two contacts.
I know it’s here somewhere.
But if it doesn’t turn up on its own before the end of the day, I’m calling the eye doctor to replace it.
Because I can.
In the meantime, when I’m in public and while I wait, my vanity will cause me to shift the one contact from eye to eye as each gets tired.
Or imagine a woman who has ten coins and loses one. Won’t she light a lamp and scour the house, looking in every nook and cranny until she finds it? And when she finds it you can be sure she’ll call her friends and neighbors: ‘Celebrate with me! I found my lost coin!’ Count on it—that’s the kind of party God’s angels throw every time one lost soul turns to God. ~Luke 15:8-10