Before heading to camp that summer I double-checked that I had everything I needed. Toothbrush. Check. Socks. Check. I touched my neck to make sure I was wearing my great grandmother’s necklace, a simple rose pendant on a gold chain. Check. I grabbed my bag and headed out the door.
I arrived at camp and quickly found my friends. “Come play capture the flag with us!” they said. The game was messier than we anticipated because the grounds were muddy from rain the week before. When we went to the bathroom to clean up I looked in the mirror and my stomach dropped. My neck was bare. The rose pendant was gone! My friends helped me look for it on the grounds. I knew it was too small to end up on the camp’s lost and found table, which was usually crowded with water bottles and clothes. This was my only chance to find it, but after searching everywhere we couldn’t. Surely it was buried deep in the mud. I asked God to bring it back to me if he could.
On the last night of camp I was sitting in the mess hall when a friend came up to me and held out her hand. “Is this yours?” she asked. My pendant! It was scraped up and bent—unwearable—but there it was right in front of me. It must have gone through the lawn mower when they cut the campground’s grass the day before. I couldn’t believe it survived. “Where did you find it?” I gasped. “On the lost and found table,” she replied. Someone had not only managed to find it in the mud but thought it was valuable enough to save for its owner. I knew God had heard my prayer. I can’t wear my pendant anymore, but it’s become even more precious to me.
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