What kind of fool loses an air pod in the snow?

by Pringle Franklin

For Christmas, my husband bought me a slick set of air pods that connect via Bluetooth to my iPhone. Finally, I was liberated from the techno-fishnet of my dangly old earbuds. Whether I scuttled like a crab to scrub the tiny tiles in our shower, or yanked on the rowing machine at the gym, I could listen to music or audiobooks without the nuisance of wires. I was beyond thrilled.

Slender and white, the tiny air pods came nestled in their own carrying case, which looks a glossy box of dental floss. The case recharges the air pods as soon as they are magnetically hooked in. It even makes a satisfying click when the air pods slip back into their molded spots, reassuring the user that all is well.

What’s not to love about this? “These were very expensive,” Sam told me. “More than $200. That means, you can’t lose them.”

Sam’s stern warning was like a prophecy of doom. Because the air pods perch on the edge of your ear’s opening, it felt inevitable that one or both would fall out at some point along the way. Yet I vowed to keep track of the darling little guys while wearing them. As soon as I finished listening, I promised to put them away in their secure nest.

Of course, Apple had already factored the bumbling idiot into their design. If an air pod slips out, the music halts in both ears. That way, you know when and where to start looking.

And I was careful. After three weeks with no mishaps, perhaps I became overconfident.

While on a family ski trip to Solitude, Utah, I decided to take the air pods for a test ride on skis. Sam and the boys were taking a lunch break, so he wasn’t there to point out that this was a terrible idea. I assured myself that the tight fit of my ski helmet would hold the air pods in place.

Just before getting on the Apex chair lift, I popped in the air pods and cranked up my tunes. Stevie Nicks was singing Sorcerer in my personal bubble as I sailed over the snowy mountain in the chair. “Lady from the mountains….” Stevie crooned, as bristling cold air hit me in the face. I felt enlivened, happy.

At the top of the hill, I launched into my first run and swooshed in time to Stevie’s throaty voice. My body felt light and perfectly balanced; it was almost like flying. I made my way over to the far side of the resort, to the Eagle Express chair lift. It was less crowded over there, with beautifully bare Aspen trees and long, black trails that offered an appealing challenge.

An hour later, after gobbling up four exhilarating runs, I noticed that my right ear hurt. The air pod must have shifted, because it was pinching me. But Stevie was still singing, so at least I hadn’t lost it. When I got to the bottom of the hill, I stepped to the side of the Eagle lift line to sort things out.

I removed my helmet slowly, careful not to shake the air pods onto the snow. Gingerly, I reached up and managed to capture the offending device. As expected, the music stopped, but so did the pinching. Problem solved, or so I thought.

When I reached over to check on the left side, that ear was empty. Instantly my mind replayed my husband’s stern warning. I felt panicky. It must be here somewhere. During the next several minutes, I feverishly patted myself down, even removing my ski jacket and shivering in the cold to search. Next, I did a thorough survey of my lower body and the surrounding ground. Nothing. Rien. Nada.

My stomach lurched. This could not be happening!

I poled over to one of the lift operators, showed her the remaining air pod, and explained my predicament. I would be skiing this lift for awhile longer. If the other air pod should happen to turn up, would she please flag me down?

She agreed, adding that whenever Solitude lift operators found items, they posted memos on their white boards. Skiers were always losing hats and gloves, and they could read the lost-and-found notices while waiting in line. I felt slightly better until she added wryly: “But I’ve gotta say, it’s small, and it’s white.” She gestured at the blanket of snow covering the entire mountain. “I think it’s a goner.”

I gulped, then acknowledged her statement with a nod. While I was riding the frozen metal chair back up the slope, I chastised myself for being so stupid. How could I have believed that the helmet would keep the air pods in place? And why did the music keep playing even after one had fallen out? I dreaded having to break the news to Sam. I could envision the anger and disappointment on his face. 

The only tool I had was to claim Romans 8:28, the promise from St. Paul that all things will work together for good for those who love God. I silently recited it, yet that seemed so unlikely. How could I expect God to work for good when I had done the very thing my husband had warned me against? My mouth was full of the bitter taste of my foolishness. My gut tightened in self loathing.

It wasn’t easy to release my shame and guilt. I knew the air pod probably wouldn’t show up until the snow melted in the spring. Unless — perhaps I would spy it, lying somewhere along the trail. I had been skiing in this same territory for awhile, so it was possible that God would help lead me to it.

During next few runs, I tracked the ground, noticing every object. I began swiveling my head, turning to stare at every shadow or groove on the trail. If I didn’t stop this obsessive searching, I knew I would wind up as a pile of broken bones on the ground. 

It was time to get serious about God’s promise. I stepped far over to the side and took a few minutes to collect myself. Closing my eyes, I forced myself to use the prayer method which works best. I looked inward for the face of Christ; after sensing his presence, I envisioned myself handing the fiasco into his care.

I felt Him there, his constant and loving nature, his willingness to come along beside me and lead me onward. Part of me still wanted to wring my hands and whip myself, to hold onto the drama. But that is not His way. He was willing to take ownership, for me to submit all my tangled concerns into his affectionate care. So I relinquished it, knowing that I needed to accept the situation and cease my struggling. He was at work in my midst. There was nothing left to do. With a sigh, I continued to ski.

Not long after, I met up again with Sam and the boys. I didn’t prolong the misery, but told him straightway. I took complete responsibility and owned my mistake. Even so, he was rankled. With tight tips, Sam said he knew it had been a bad idea to give those air pods to me.

I felt sad, and disappointed in myself. But it was a relief to have told him. I knew the passage of time would ease his anger. Rather than fight, we both tried to move on to another subject. It was about 3:30 p.m. The shadows of the trees and skiers on the slope were growing long; the sun was low, and the lifts would be closing in about 15 minutes. 

We decided to squeeze in a few more runs. Two fast zips down the steep trail left me puffing. My legs were getting tired, and I told Sam I was ready to head back to the condo. But Sam turned left, toward the nearest lift, yelling over his shoulder that he was going for one more. I like to keep pace with him when we are skiing, so I swiveled to follow. Surely I had one more downhill flight left me in.

Because it was almost closing time, the higher lifts had already shut down. We were skiing Apex, the first lift that I had visited before making my way over to the more difficult terrain. It was a long way from where I’d discovered the loss of my air pod, but I decided to pole over and check out the Apex white board, just in case.  To my astonishment, someone had scrawled in erasable marker: “Air pod found.”

Of all the unlikely things!! It must have fallen out when I was putting it in, before connecting to my phone. That would explain why the music kept playing with only one in place. 

Quickly I got the attention of the lift operator and showed him my lonely air pod. He didn’t know anything about it; he wasn’t the one who had written the memo. He stepped away to look around in the operator’s shack. Soon he came out holding the other one between his fingers. My spirit soared like an eagle catching a sudden updraft. I couldn’t help but gush aloud: “Praise God! Praise God! I can’t believe it. Praise God!”

Moments later, with my prize, I poled over to where Sam was standing and told him the fantastic news. He smirked, even as I continued erupting with, “thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus. ” I had become an overflowing fountain of praise. On the lift, as the two of us rode up together, he decided enough was enough.

“You know, that thing was left out in the snow,” Sam said grumpily. “It probably doesn’t even work anymore.”

My spirit told me this negative thinking was literally laughable.  

“Oh no,” I said. “My Jesus is not a halfway kind of savior. It will work.”

Once safely back at the condo, I put the air pods in my ears. When I pushed play on my phone’s playlist, Stevie sang Rhiannon into both ears….as if nothing had ever happened. That’s when Sam cheered up, and the enormity of having found the proverbial needle in the haystack struck me. Left on my own, I could have spent hours looking around on the wrong side of the mountain. God knew where it was lying all along.

After that, my son Benton begun referring to them as the holy air pods. The nickname makes me remember: nothing in all of heaven or earth is beyond his attention, if we are able to trust it into his loving care.