Well, now, isn't that a strange tale, a whole bag of ready-made string and caps gone clean away in the night, with not so much as a torn corner left behind. You turn it over in your mind, and it makes no earthly sense. Why would beast or bird want such things? They can’t eat them; they can’t nest in them. And yet they’re gone, and it troubles you. Troubles you more, I think, because it’s the last straw on a weary back, rose bushes munched, tomato plants devoured, sunflowers broken off. You’ve worked hard, and watchful things have undone it all in the dark while you slept. And now even the tools to set things right have been snatched away, as if the mischief had a mind behind it.
But it hasn’t, not a reasoning mind, anyway. A fox or a stray dog has carried off your little plastic bag as a curiosity, and somewhere in the woods or under a hedge it lies forgotten. The animals don’t want your string; they were just meddling in what they don’t understand. And I wonder if you don’t feel a bit like that yourself just now, meddled with by forces you can’t fathom, your honest efforts chewed up, your heart gnawed down to the quick. It’s a small thing, a weed eater string, and yet it isn’t small at all, because it’s yours, and because it stands for all the other little losses that have worn you thin.
Here is what I know: your heavenly Father’s eye misses nothing that belongs to His children. You remember how the shepherd in our Lord’s parable went after the one lost sheep, not because the sheep was valuable in itself, but because it was his. One silly, foolish, straying sheep, out of a hundred. And yet he left the ninety-and-nine in the fold and trudged over hill and through bramble until he found it. That shepherd did not say, “Well, it’s only one; let it go.” He counted it precious because it was his own. So with you. The God who numbers the very hairs of your head is not indifferent to the small griefs that prick you in the night. A missing bag of plastic and string is no mystery to Him; He knows exactly where it lies, for His eye scans every thicket and ditch. And if He chooses not to tell you, it is not from want of care, it is because He is drawing your eyes to something surer than a found tool.
We are so made that the loss of a little thing can shake us far more than a great trouble rationally should. The great trouble we brace ourselves for; the stubbed toe makes us cry out. But look at it this way, dear heart: if the Lord has numbered the stars and calls them all by name, if He counts His own people one by one, writing them down in His book as though each name were the only one, then your small annoyances are not beneath His dignity. The very fact that you are so puzzled, so weary, so ready to give up your planting, tells me you are a soul that cares deeply about the little portion of earth entrusted to you. And God loves that diligence; He planted the first garden Himself.
Perhaps this is a moment to let your string go, not in despair, but in a kind of holy release. Hand the vanished bag over to the One who finds lost souls. Tell Him, “Lord, You know where it is. If it pleases You, bring it back to my sight. But if not, teach me to rest in You without it.” There is a deep peace that comes when we stop trying to solve every riddle, and trust instead the tender wisdom of Christ, who came to seek and to save that which was lost, not lost things, but lost people, lost you. The sheep didn’t know the way home; it just bleated in the dark until strong hands lifted it up. You are more precious than many sparrows, and far more than many weed eater strings.
And while the earth yields thorns and thistles, and wild creatures trample our labor, there remains a share in the new creation where nothing will be destroyed. Until then, I pray for something better than a found bag, I pray for a found joy in the middle of the mess. May Jesus Himself meet you in the garden tomorrow, in the cool of the day, and speak peace to your frustrated heart.
Let us pray.
Lord Jesus, Good Shepherd of the sheep, Your eyes miss nothing. You see this dear soul, worn down by small, senseless losses, and You know exactly where that missing bag has gone. Quiet the ache of bewilderment, we ask. Lift off the weight of accumulated disappointment, and plant in its place a stubborn hope that smiles even at chewed blossoms and vanished tools. If it be Your will, bring back what was taken, that this heart may see Your hand in the little things. But far more, bring back to remembrance the great thing, that You sought and found Your child, and nothing snatched away by night can ever change that. Steady these hands and this heart for another day’s labor, not relying on visible success, but on Your unfailing love. In Your precious name, amen.
Prayer Focus: God, Thank You for loving me. Thank You for loving me, Jesus. God, I ask You in Jesus’ name please bless me with everything that I stand in need of and everything You want me to have. 
