I’ve been making keychains.

Not because anyone asked. These are unbidden keychains, capable of gaining a key, capable of organizing many keys. But no one has asked me for them. So, naturally, I plan to give them away.

I didn’t exactly decide to make them either. I was making a parka for my wife and wanted to add a waist drawstring, so I ordered a roll of black paracord from Amazon.

When it arrived, I’d ordered wrong—too thin, even doubled. So I ordered more, in colors. I braided four microcords into three bundles, then flat-braided those into a single drawstring. Colorful. Successful. And now I had excess cord and restless hands.

I braided more. I liked that they were quiet fidgets—easy to roll, twist, knot, and unknot. So I ordered more colors, despite having only two hands and no evidence that anyone else wanted a corded fidget.

Then it occurred to me: a short, colorful flat braid would make a good keychain. I wove the remaining microcord into different braids. Another order—this time carabiners—and the keychains were finished.

What is a key?

A key implies a lock. A lock implies something worth protecting—or something worth hiding. A locked house might shelter treasure. Or prisoners. Or nothing at all.

You can lock others in: jail, prison, cage.

Or you can lock yourself in.

Build the cell. Close the door. Throw away the key. Call it safety. Call it principle. Call it whatever you refuse to question.

A friend of mine sold everything—car, house, belongings—to enter ministry overseas. At the airport, the metal detector went off. The agent asked if he had any keys.

My friend froze, briefly. He had none. Nothing to secure. No locks. No obligations clinking in his pocket.

It only took a second. He reached in, pulled out loose change, set it in the tray, and walked through.

Now I’m making keychains for mythical keys. Perhaps there will be no keys at all. Just color and braid. Just readiness, waiting in someone’s pocket.

The carabiner would still set off the detector. The agent might ask: why carry a keychain with no keys?

Most of us already carry keys. We’ve organized them somehow. Offering a new keychain means asking someone to reorganize—to exchange what works for what might work better. Or differently. Or not at all.

I can’t explain why anyone would do that.