November 13, 2020 - It was Mother's Day afternoon in 1970 and my wife and I were playing with our son and daughter in our front yard. We were tossing a football around, and my wife fell while trying to make a circus catch. It was obvious that her left hand was broken, and medical attention was called for. We prepared for a trip down to the medical center in Houston, Texas, particularly Methodist Hospital, located on Fannin Street.
A neighbor agreed to watch our two children while my wife and I made the trip to Methodist Hospital. My wife was in considerable pain, and I could tell that her hand and fingers would swell. Then it dawned on me that she should take her wedding ring off while she could. So, she took her ring off and handed it to me. The engagement ring has been welded to the wedding ring years before, so there was just one ring unit. It was now safe in my shirt pocket.
At the emergency room, she was x-rayed to confirm the break, and her hand was placed in a cast, up to her elbow. Since my car was in the emergency lane, I felt that I should move it to another parking space. It was then that I decided I was taking a chance of her rings falling out of my shirt pocket when I bent over, so I put them in my left pant pocket. The only parking space I could find was on Fannin Street, a parallel parking spot against the curb. I felt lucky to find one so close to the hospital.
Finally, the doctors were finished with the repair of my wife's left hand, so I walked back to Fannin Street and drove the car around to the discharge door of the hospital.
At home, she crawled into bed, her hand in great pain. The doctor had written a prescription for pain, so a late-night trip to the pharmacy was the next step in her recovery process. But first, she stated, “I want my rings back now.” That was the first time I had thought about her rings. “No problem,” I assured her. I put my hand in my left pant pocket, but no rings! Then I examined the right pant pocket—no rings. Next, my shirt pocket was checked with the same results. I had lost my wife's wedding ring set!
Now, the pain and the broken hand were secondary problems to the rings. I assured her that I would find the rings, period. I got my flashlight, and my son who was about seven years old, wanted to help. I had decided that the keys probably came out with the car keys as I got them from my left pant pocket.
Back to the medical center we went, with little real hope of ever finding her treasured rings. It was very dark by now as I turned on Fannin Street, a very wide one-way street, and drove to the area that I had parked the car earlier. To my amazement, the same parking spot that I had occupied earlier was empty—a one-in-a million chance. I parked the car again, and my son and I got out, beginning the futile search. As the beam from the flashlight lit up the curb, I noticed a glint, something shiny caught my eye.
The beam of the light found the glint again; and I walked up to it and, to my total shock, there were the rings in the gutter—still in one piece. I gave the Lord a quick “thank-you,” retrieved the rings, and drove to the pharmacy. Obviously, the rings had been pulled out of my pocket with my car keys as I unlocked the car door. I never saw the rings fall to the pavement.
Back at home, my wife was still in pain, but the best painkiller was handing her the wedding-ring set. Her angel had been working overtime of late. Her broken hand healed without incident, and she still wears the rings. All's well that end well, I always say.
