Perhaps I would have gotten more into the book if I were Buddhist. Perhaps I would have gotten more into the book if I had any connection to the issues surrounding binge eating and binge spending. Perhaps I would have gotten more into the book if I hadn’t been reading it through the lens of my own loss.
Because really I never quite accepted that Geneen Roth, author of Lost and Found, had really lost anything of value. Money, yes. A lot of it. But it was money invested with Bernie Madoff, not money she was really using for anything at that moment. She didn’t lose her house and really, worrying over a mortgage is not the same. She still had food on the table and really, shopping at Costco isn’t that bad. She still had opportunities to go to New York and stay in hotels for speaking engagements and really, forgoing that $1000 pair of glasses is hardly suffering.
And I suppose it didn’t help that I knew from the start that she got it all back within a year and a half.
Or maybe it was just because she didn’t really spend that much time on the loss itself. There was a moment there when she is on the satellite phone with her husband to tell him what happened and he says they are no longer the kind of people who can afford to talk on a phone that costs $10 a minute — there I felt a sense of the loss. But she moves on rather quickly to the lessons learned from her tailspin that lasted a couple of weeks and to her analysis of her (and our culture’s) desire for more.
But I lost a child. There are no get togethers where people ask questions like, “If you could choose between getting it all back or keeping the lessons you have learned through the loss, which would you choose?”
Because questions like that only make sense when you are talking about losing material things. Things which only have the value you affix to them.
And while I identified with her sense of living “in the moment,” the need to pull her thoughts back to the here and now where they did not run wild with panic and fear for the future, it has neither been freeing nor beautiful for me. I do not stop and appreciate the beauty of the rose, drink in the smell of springtime before a rain, nor find comfort in the abundance I already have.
Those, rather, are the things I have lost, “. . . for all is vanity and a striving after wind.”
There is only one source of comfort for this longing in my heart and it isn’t here in the present for not all that I treasure is here. It isn’t in the many little gifts I sometimes barely perceive for they are as fleeting as the flower before it fades. It isn’t in myself for I have not the power to bring back my little boy.
Instead, I rest in the promise of the one who created him. Who said that life is not what we are living for and death is not the end. And in the glimpses I catch between the tears, I see something so brilliant that it leaves this world looking as pale and empty as it did the day Tiggy died.
And I remember that this is not the world we were created for.
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This is a paid review for BlogHer Book Club but the opinions expressed are my own.












“Mommy! Mommy! You should come out and try the honeysuckle. It is so good!”



















Which brings us back to our mystery track.







Welcome to Roscommon Acres, my little home in the country. I write here about life more abundantly, from the joy of a baby’s smile to the almost unbearable grief of losing a son. I am seeking beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, a garment of praise instead of the spirit of despair (Isaiah 61:3).


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