When I was a child, I used to speak like a child, think like a child, reason like a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things. — 1 Corinthians 13:11
This is a fable, of sorts. Thus far, it doesn’t have a completely happy ending.
Let me explain.
One winter when my daughter Katie was around 4 or 5, she and I were poking around a thrift shop, which was one of our favorite pastimes. Well, mine anyway, and Katie was always happy to come along for the ride.
The shop was drafty, and we were bundled up. But I recall Katie forgetting about the chill in the air when she spotted the blue horse. It was around 8 or 10 inches high, made of ceramic or something similar, and was a glossy blue, looking as though it had been through a kiln. The mane was unusual, sort of squared off, reminding me of a Trojan horse. The horse looked as though it might have been purchased as an all-white model from a hobby store, and carefully painted blue by someone who had apparently tired of it. Now, the horse rested quietly on a table among assorted dusty knickknacks.
“Look how pretty it is, Daddy,” Katie said, and I had to agree. I paid $5 for it, and made my daughter, and me, very happy.
Katie’s mom and I divorced about this time, and I carried that horse from one apartment to the next over the course of a decade. We always displayed it in Katie’s room in each new place. The heavy, but somewhat fragile, horse wasn’t something to be played with, but it was always nice to have around. Its presence maintained some continuity in our lives.
I remarried when Katie was 15, and moved into a new house. Katie continued to have her own room, with her old familiar things around.
Shortly after we moved in, my wife and I sorted through our newly blended household, and made some donations to a local Goodwill. Not long after, Katie and I were chatting in the car as I drove her back to her mom’s house. I asked her if she remembered a little ceramic unicorn I had come across during unpacking that she had as a little girl.
She seemed lukewarm about the unicorn, but then said something that made my heart race. “That blue horse means more to me.”
In my moving and cleaning frenzy, had I donated the blue horse to Goodwill by mistake? I honestly couldn’t remember, so I changed the subject.
After dropping her off, I drove as fast and as recklessly as I ever have on a public highway to get back to the house. Surely, I thought to myself, I wouldn’t have been careless enough to donate the blue horse. The memory of Katie’s sweet little face when she spotted it that cold day, the puffy hooded coat she wore…all of it came rushing back as I tore around curves and passed every vehicle on the road.
I could barely hold the house key steadily enough to get it into the front door lock. I tore through the house like a crazy person, looking on every shelf, in every closet, everywhere.
It was gone.
Next stop: Goodwill.
I jumped back in my car and raced to the Goodwill store across town, barely coming to a stop in the parking lot before jumping out. I barreled through the front door, and looked at every piece of kitsch on display.
It was gone.
Had some other little girl spotted it? Did some adult think it would look nice on a mantle? Who had Katie’s horse?
Katie never brought up the blue horse again after that day. A dozen years have passed, and she has since grown up, married, and started a career. She has her own house and new memories to make. She is happy, and probably doesn’t think about it.
But from time to time, I do, and I occasionally drop in on that same Goodwill, just in case. Walking through the crowded aisles of a thrift or antique shop is still a way for me to unwind. Every now and then I even find a few gems — old magazines, a working typewriter, a fountain pen in good condition.
But my hobby isn’t as relaxing as it used to be. Now, I’m on a mission. I’m on the lookout for a blue ceramic horse I bought for my child nearly a quarter century ago. I wish I had a picture of it, but I can’t find an image of the horse anywhere, not even in the background of family photos. Physical evidence of it has vanished, but not my memory of the joy it brought.
So, if you wander into a thrift shop during this holiday season, please do me a favor. Look around for a shiny blue ceramic horse. If you find the blue horse, I will gladly purchase it from you. It will be the Christmas miracle I’ve been hoping for all these years.