So when I was in fifth grade, someone stole a Pokemon card from one of my classmates. It was a Charizard, a holographic one. I wasn’t particularly good friends with this kid, but I took it upon myself to find out who took it. Maybe I fancied myself a bit of a fifth grade detective. I questioned some kids, but found no leads. The trail went cold. The case remains unsolved.
Our lives are, for better or worse, not a whole lot like a detective story. Beautiful “dames” (or dudes) don’t just walk into our offices, pleading us to solve their case. Little, seemingly insignificant details don’t turn out to be clues—they just turn out to be little, insignificant details. Few of us will experience the kind of last-act twist that casts doubt over everything we think we know. For most of us, there’s not one big mystery we’re trying to solve, but a lot of little ones.
But in all our lives, there is at least some small amount of mystery. Like the identity of that Pokemon thief. And I think that’s a wonderful thing. Although I also see how it could be a terrible thing for some: not knowing the fate or location of a loved one, wondering why your significant other broke your heart.
Reflect on the mysteries in your life, good or bad. Tell me about one of them, or more if you like. What does it mean to you? Will you ever solve it?
Due Sunday, October 27.