When we lose something, we tend to lament according to the value placed on whatever we lost. We agonize less over a lost golf ball than a lost pet. But when we lose something that matters, we beat ourselves up for our carelessness, our stupidity, our absentmindedness.
And, if we are Catholic, we tend to pray to St. Anthony of Padua.
Once, my nephew Jordan lost his birthday money, and I found fresh faith in St. Anthony.
I had telephoned my younger sister, but her 12-year-old son Jordan answered. He told me he’d lost his wad of birthday bills: $87 to be exact. He’d stashed the cash in an empty CD box, he said. He’d searched high and low. So had his mother.
“I think maybe the housekeeper threw away the box,” my nephew said.
I recognized the tendency to blame others for our losses. “Has the garbage truck come?” I asked.
“Not yet,” said Jordan.
“To me, $87 is enough money to search the trash,” I said.
“All right, all right,” he said, and he handed the telephone over to his mother.
While I chatted with my sister, I heard my nephew in the background.
“It’s not there,” he said, and in his statement I heard all the disappointment and self-loathing I knew all too well as the residual emotion of losing something valuable.
“Tell him to pray to St. Anthony,” I said to my sister.
“You tell him,” she said, exasperated. “He listens to you.”
I said, “’Tony, Tony, come around, something’s lost and can’t be found.’ It really works.”
“Right,” my sister said. “Tell it to him.”
I asked my nephew, “Remember that statue of St. Anthony I gave you for your First Holy Communion?”
“Yeah,” Jordan said. “It’s down in my room.”
“Go say a little prayer to St. Anthony; he’s the patron saint of lost things. You can even make your prayer light. Somebody taught me this one: ‘Tony, Tony come around, something’s lost and can’t be found.’ And it’s worked for me. Lots of times,” I said.
“Once, while I was in New York City, I went to Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. And afterwards, when I saw a window depicting St. Anthony, I prayed a little prayer of thanksgiving for all the lost things he’d found for me.
“That afternoon, I discovered my wallet missing. And I sent up a little prayer of petition to St. Anthony. When I retraced my steps, I returned to the agency where I’d dropped of my rental car. I figured I’d left my wallet in the car. My wallet was oxblood leather; the car’s upholstery was the same color, and I thought my wallet had blended in so that I didn’t see it had fallen onto the floor,” I said.
“Back at the rental car garage, some guys were cleaning the car, and they sort of laughed a skeptical New York laugh when I asked if I could just look to see if my wallet was still there. The wallet was still in the car. The cash and credit cards still in the wallet. In New York City.”
“Really?” my nephew asked.
“Really,” I said. “But you have to have faith. You have to believe.”
“I believe, I believe,” I heard Jordan sing as he ran off.
“Great,” my sister said, back on the line. “He’s got a friend downstairs, and you’ve got him going down to venerate the statue and pray to St. Anthony.”
“What has he got to lose?” I asked.
My sister said, “His faith.”
I sent up another prayer to St. Anthony. A prayer apologizing for putting him on the spot, but pointing out how important this particular finding would be to the faith of my nephew. And myself.”
“I found it, I found it,” my nephew shouted.
I rejoiced, having found again my faith in the intercession of St. Anthony.
My sister seemed to have found it, too, as revealed by her inquiry: “How does that go again? 'Tony, Tony come around…'?”
Just in case you’ve lost track of devotion to St. Anthony, it’s not too late to find him.
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