The Wedding Ring

What my wedding ring taught me afterwards

By Ruth Tindugan

“With this ring, I thee unwed.”

I pulled the ring from my finger and inserted it into the slit of a small, black, velvet square box. Its white satin lining felt soft and smooth, like the inner coverings of a casket. 

It was then that I saw something for the first time: a circle of pale skin on my fourth left finger where the ring lodged for twenty years.

I stared at the  finger that once proudly carried a symbol of my identity — a wife,  the ring given with a promise of forever. Ringless, it felt cold and naked. My chest tightened, and my left hand curled into a fist. Impulsively, my right hand started rubbing the fist gently, as if to say, “There, there. Its going to be okay.” I sat for a while with hands intertwined and made a vow: from this day forward, I will only wear a ring for its beauty, not as a token of a promise. I put away the ring at the bottom shelf of my drawer where things unused were kept.

The days after my divorce were a mix of  sun, wind, and rain, as my heart, like a canoe, started sailing on uncharted waters of new singleness.  The cloud of the unknown often casted shadows of self-doubt, but gratitude and faith served like oars that came in handy when needed. They brought clarity and resilience like rays of the sun breaking through the rain that — needed or dreaded, poured.

Six months later, I was awakened by  chirping outside my window.  I parted the curtain and saw a bird fluttering over the apple tree’s bare branches with twigs that looked like scrawny fingers starving for spring. It flew back towards the gray clouds as a squirrel scampered on the fence. I sat on the edge of the bed feeling light and free as the bird, and I wondered why. Then, I realized that I no longer miss him.

But —I was missing something. The ring.  It was the only ring I had my entire life and I resented its absence, and scolded myself for pining over an object that had already lost its meaning.  I thought of posting an ad on the Neighbor App and sell it for a hundred dollars.  But, tired of going through the divorce’s miscellaneous debris, I kept procrastinating and it remained in the box at the bottom drawer.

One day, one of my sons asked if he could trade-in my wedding ring for his purchase of the engagement ring his fiancée wanted.  I agreed, thinking of no better way to dispose of it.  He went to a reputable jeweler, and when he came home, he handed me back the ring.“Mom, I couldn’t trade  it because it was bought from a different company.” He handed the box with a sticker of the appraised four-digit value.

I gasped, and nearly keeled over when I saw the price, and I cringed at the thought of planning to sell it for just a hundred bucks! A wave of relief washed over me, thankful that my procrastination for not selling it did not reap remorse for lack of prudence.

Polished, the ring dazzled like new, and instantly, now knowing its cash value, the meaningless became a prized possession. I put the ring box inside a small, tin can and put it at the bottom drawer, under a pile of scarves, belts, what-nots, and just-in-case-I-might-use-it accessories. Once in a while, I would open the drawer to see if the box is still “there”. (You can turn it into cash someday, my son said).

One day, I noticed that the white trace on my ring finger had disappeared. Stripped of adornment, the twinge for a replacement kept “a-ringing” in my head for although I still have the ring, it felt I was robbed of its use.

Finally, I bought one.

It happened a year after my divorce . I visited another son in North Dakota, and one day, he took me to the buffalo museum.  At the gift shop, I browsed over the magnets for a souvenir, and then I saw it.  At the cashier's counter was a box of rings, for three dollars each.  They looked like key rings embossed with two different colors– silver and one of these hues: moss green, raspberry red, ocean blue, and sunset orange.  I bought the orange, and as I put it on my middle left finger, I pronounced to myself:  

“This ring is a souvenir of my first trip as a single woman again.  The two colors — orange  and silver—reflect the autumn season of my life.  The sparkles are reminders of the many moments of joy and beauty that I already had, and will still discover in the years to come.”

I stepped out of the museum smiling as one would over a bite of chocolate cake topped with candied yellow roses frosting.

I wore it every day. I would look at it at a stop light when my hands are on the steering wheel, and it felt right and good like dancing to a love song. I didn’t think of the hidden wedding ring again… until the ring exchange at my son’s wedding.

Back home, after the ceremony, with the mother-of-the groom nostalgia, and feeling some  residue of my own wedding memories, and mostly because its the only jewelry I valued for its worth in cash, I opened the drawer to look at it again.

It wasn’t there!

Bewildered, I searched my bedroom —under the mattress, in the filing cabinet, and emptied the entire dresser. Nothing. When was the last time I looked at it? Where did I put it?  How come I don’t remember anything?  Not being able to remember gnawed in my mind for days, and the unexplained loss made me restless. 

Three months later, wearied of this uneasiness, I took to my usual last resort: prayer.  
But, just to make sure I’m doing my part to have the prayer answered, I continued searching. Finally, after days of no human and divine results, I gave up: “I am done asking You to help me find it.  All I’m asking now is to have the serenity to accept that this ring is lost.”  And with that, I considered the case closed.

The following night, I dreamt of my ex-husband.  The details of the dream vanished when I woke up, but it left me feeling uneasy, and unable to go back to sleep.

Suddenly, three words flashed in my head: pray for him.

I protested. No.  He left me.

Is your life better with or without him?

I’m happily un-married.

So he gave you the gift of freedom.

Yes!

You can return the favor with a spirit of goodwill.

I won't be honest if I wish him blessings.

Silence.

How about if I just say “I don’t know what’s going on in his life, but I lift him up to You?”

That’s good enough.

The soliloquy ended abruptly, and I as I got up, my feet nearly tripped over the tangled electric cords under the desk by my bed. I pulled the desk out, dropped on my knees, and reached to unplug the wire from the wall, and there, wedged on the desk’s hind wheel was the missing wedding box.

Stunned, I froze with eyes and mouth wide open.

Seriously? I’ve looked behind this desk many times.

Then another sentence shot through my bewildered mind.

Remember the story of Job? His wealth was restored after he prayed for his friends.

I shook my head. The ex will never be a friend.

Silence.

Suddenly, I felt something missing in my heart: I no longer cared for the ring’s value. Perhaps the time and effort I spent in searching for what was lost had minimized its importance, and strangely, in its absence, I was at peace.

Release is good.

Still on the floor, on my knees, I stared at the diamond ring for a long time, reflecting on its cryptic role in my journey, and awed by a dream that revealed my soul. Once again, I was mesmerized by its beauty that sparkled like a sunbeam encased in gold.