Looking for Signs

I was hunting for the white plastic bag — the one where I kept all the lost things gathered over the years. The bag I was saving for the prophet Eliyahu’s return. We are told he will restore all that is lost before the coming of the Messiah. I was looking for that bag and wondering about faith — mine, and the community’s.

I tried to remember the last time I saw it. I think it was two years ago, when I cleared the crawl space before Pesach. I pulled it out, put it back, and pulled it out again — and finally opened it.

Inside was a size-ten boy’s white frayed Shabbat shirt. Chasky brought home from the mikvah in Toronto, by mistake. That was eighteen years ago. A black plastic Casio men’s watch with a broken clasp and a dead battery, found at the nearby park. Bulky Crocs that Benzion brought home from his New York — red-rimmed and missing ankle straps. He said they were his friends but they never got claimed. And at the bottom, a cheap heavy gold pendant. My daughter found it on our walk home from shul. She wanted the huge diamonds to be real. After Shabbos, she went back to the bus stop and hung a note: asking for two signs, and leaving our phone number.

There was also a baby’s knitted hat and a nameless scratched bus card. I considered throwing everything out. Over time I learned it was better not to pick up lost things. I stopped the children from doing so when we were out. “Don’t!” I’d call, quicker than they could reach. The bag was filling too fast — faster than Eliyahu Hanavi’s pace.

Near the bottom, I found the stethoscope. The insurance doctor had left it behind when we lived in Toronto. I remember Eli lying on the couch, the doctor taking his pulse, smiling. “Are you sure you’re not an athlete?” he joked. Eli’s pulse was steady, low. The elderly doctor packed up and drove off before I could return the stethoscope. I called the insurance company; no one followed up. I called again, and again. Eventually I put the stethoscope in the bag. He never called back. I wondered if he had died.

A few weeks later, our insurance broker called, voice trembling. Eli didn’t qualify for life insurance — something was wrong with his bloodwork. Elevated liver enzymes, he said.

That was our first sign.