THINGS MISSING AND LOST

The things missing most valuable are little pieces of ourselves.

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I am more likely to notice the rustling leaves in the trees as I walk.
But today there is wooden trunk of another kind, one cut down and repurposed to rise like a centurian guarding sacred territory that speaks to my heart.

Its skin is studded with a thousand tiny punctures: rusty nails, bent staples, bits of torn paper left like soft ghosts blowing about. “Living Art.” This is my first response…a constellation of old longings pressed down hard, each staple a heartbeat, each nail a pleading into the wind, whispers of precious things no longer needed or lost—
"Orange tabby kitty with a white spot on his tail."
"Blue banana seat bicycle stolen from yard."

This telephone pole. Once the towering symbol of humans connecting just around the corner or across town, now a conveyer of written rather than spoken thoughts.

It occurs to me this is an unexpected altar inviting secrets to be told and wisdom to pour out.

These are the words of my neighbors I’ve never met, the details of their lives driven in with hope that what is conveyed will be seen, even felt.
Families moving through the same soft mornings, sipping tea at sun-drenched tables, maybe weeping behind closed doors when the world feels too heavy to bear.

All that longing pressed into wood, right here in the open, seen but somehow missed.

And then I begin to wonder — what if we dared to nail up our deepest, most tender confessions or hopes?

Please, someone sit with me through this long night.
I need a friend who will stay when I’m messy and unmade.
My marriage is fraying and I don’t know how to hold it together.
I want to know I matter. Just now and for once.

I imagine these fragile human prayers trembling in the breeze, like hand-penned psalms.
Would I stop to read? Even more…would I dare to respond?

The loneliest home is not defined by empty rooms, but by our inability to speak what is felt.
What are you feeling that has been left unsaid?

Where is your prayer post?
Where is the place you feel safe enough to unravel — to finally say, I can’t do this alone anymore?

This quiet invitation, I softly speak to myself—
What longing would you post if you knew someone might come?

I don’t know what you would write.
But I know I would read it.
I know I would stop.

Such a holy endeavor —
this wood and nails joined together.

The same materials that once held the weight of the world’s sorrow,
now hold infinite small losses, driven in, in hope.

There is something sacred about the way we press our need into trees,
as if asking the earth itself to bear witness.

This is not just torn bits of paper fluttering.
It is prayer in the raw.
It is confession nailed in the open.

We think of altars as hidden behind doors,
but what if they were standing quietly on street corners?
What if holiness wore the shape of splinters and staples,
and the sacred began with three words:
"I need help."

Things missed and lost. Not things but ourselves.

Because we are not so different from one another.
We’re all just longing to be seen,
longing to be loved,
longing to know that when we ask, someone might come.

What if the telephone pole were an altar?
A place where the anonymous ache could speak —
where strangers become neighbors
through the quiet ministry of missing things.

Let the messages tremble under the weight.
Let the prayers be imperfect but perfectly shared.
Let the nails be driven forcefully with gentle intent.

There is wisdom in the wood.
There is memory in the nails.
There is divinity in what we dare to share.

NOTES:

“Missing. One woman from her nest. Gone too long. In need of rest.”
I think this is what I would write. At least if it were written tonight.
And you would meet me there. At least in spirit. I would sense your presence.

If even one note on a pole can carry hope,
what might happen if we gave others permission to speak what they’ve never said out loud?

What if we created a prayer post in our neighborhoods —
a quiet wooden sentinel, inviting vulnerability and connection.

A place where neighbors could write prayers, longings, or whispered confessions
and tack them up with wood and nails, trusting someone will pause to see them.
A place where those who pass by might stop, breathe, and offer a silent prayer in return.

Perhaps this post could even hold an invitation for response —
not just a cry into the void,
but the beginning of a full conversation.

Leave a prayer. Read a prayer. Respond if you feel called.

Because these simple materials — wood and nails —
have always carried our human sorrows.
They hold the weight of everyday grief in rusted staples,
and they once held the weight of redemption in human form.

A quiet echo lives in both.

Let your post be a space not only for requests,
but for presence.
Not just for ache,
but for the tender arrival of love.

Let it be messy. Let it be sacred. Let it be seen.
Let it stand as a lifeline humming softly on our street corners —
reminding us we were never meant to carry it all alone.