The night of my seventy-eighth birthday, I lost my phone.

Half a mile from Walmart, I searched my pockets, the seat, and the floor. Twenty years ago, when people picked up a cell phone to say, “We’ll be there in ten minutes,” I scoffed. “Why don’t they plan ahead?” Yet I felt naked without mine.

Back at Walmart, I patted down the carts where I had parked. I went in and I asked clerks. I looked on, under, behind, and beside the check-out counter.

I went back out and asked people by my car. “Can you call my phone? Maybe it’s hiding here in my car.” Three persons were too busy, but a kid called my phone three times. No ring from inside the car.

He said, “Pray.”


“Pray. Ask the Lord to find your phone, and He will.”

So, while he gripped his steering wheel, I said, “Lord, please find my phone for me.” He drove on, and I went home.

I emailed Kari, our daughter in Virginia, to please tell my wife, at a funeral in Michigan, not to expect a text from me. I listened inside the car again while Kari called my number. Then she called my Walmart in Alabama and asked them if my phone had showed up. Ten minutes later, they called back. A cart pusher had turned in my phone. She emailed me.

I went into Customer Service. “Our daughter says you found my phone.” Faces lit up, and a clerk dove for a filing cabinet. She came up smiling and handed me the phone. Three of us tried an over-the-counter hug.

The next morning my phone showed forty-three calls from Kari and three from an unknown number. I texted, “The Lord found my phone like you said.”

In Customer Service, the clerks’ faces were new to me. “Do you know which cart pusher found my phone?”

Blank looks. “We don’t know that kind of thing. Sorry.”

I stopped the cart pusher in the parking lot. “Did you find my phone?”

“Not that I recall.”

No answer has come from my text, but I started my seventy-eighth year with a phone in my hand, so I, too, can schedule things at the last minute. Life is good.

Guest post by Dave Parks


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