My daughter lost one of the keys to our apartment.
Thankfully, it was not the key that opens the front door or the back door. Instead, she lost the key to the bathroom. Yes, the bathroom.
She liked playing with it when she was bored, moving the thin deadbolt back and forth, a tongue slipping in and out of a mouth. She played with it, wore the key like a ring, and then one day, poof, she made it disappear.
Now the door is open, but its tongue is permanently sticking out. And when I pass it I sigh, not wanting to think locksmith.
In our Argentine apartment, almost every door has a keyhole.
I’m musing this week on finding–or losing–the keys to faith over at SheLoves Magazine. Won’t you join me there?
