Finding a Polaroid of God in the parking lot of a place that sells camping equipment would make your day, no doubt. Think about it— all the people you could convince that faith is true, something to nurture, something to last— something for the coffee table, or a climate controlled vault complete with security and intercom, an heirloom for the child’s child.

Here the cynic adds: what about the fool’s fool who loses the photograph – that one great loss you never recover from. Should we weep? Do we help look for it? Take out an ad? Flea markets or eBay?

And if we were that fool, all flimsy threads that hold us above the ground breaking, what then?

I don’t think I could bear the sort of carelessness that leaves God, alone, a casualty of a heartless commerce that steals the soul – whatever that is.

And what’s to be made of the lucky one who stumbles over such a find? Happy accident? Synchronicity? No. Give that one your pity. There’s no place but down.

Some losses are final, but discovery, like Keats’ lovers, is the terrible tease.

Sam Rasnake
Varieties of Disturbance: Stories
Lydia Davis