It's truly amazing to me how a toy that has remained untouched in my six year olds closet for literally two years is all the sudden her "favorite toy she's ever had in her entire life."
While cleaning out this closet, I wasn't moved by my daughter's sentiment for the plastic house I found so threw the toy in the donate pile. For a second it was like I was watching a movie in slow motion: Lily dove to block my attempted donation and grabbed the house.
"You can't give this away! I'll never ever forget it! My ponies need it!"
So, I bargained with her. She could keep the house if she found two other items to donate. She methodically plodded around her room, and a few minutes later she came out handing me a mini doll's outfit and a marble.
Fortunately, in the last couple of months she has grasped on to the idea of giving things away. While getting ready for our vacation a couple of weeks ago, she told me she wanted to bring a particular doll to give to her cousin. She explained to me while packing it carefully into her suitcase that "its a great one to give away. It's lost almost all of it's hair and has pen on it."
So, we're still working on the act of generosity.
It is funny how we become attached to our things. Maybe it's more unfortunate than it is funny since most of us have an over abundance. But amidst the heaps and piles of things our family needs or doesn't need, some of which sits collecting dust and cobwebs, are the gems that hold sweet memories. These gems are the treasured possessions that often look insignificant or useless to others but they're tokens taking me back to a particular place in time with memories incredibly distinct.
While cleaning out the house, I came across one of these gems. I noticed that my kids had discarded an old, flattened, discolored, penguin stuffed animal. It wore a blue T-Shirt that read, "TLC." I seriously reverted back to a child and put on the same temper tantrum my six year old did over her plastic house.
While my youngest told me I could keep the penguin if I picked out two other items to give away, I quickly jumped into an explanation since my older two had a look like I needed to be institutionalized.
When we were little, my sisters and I were terrors to babysit. Quite literally, we were terrors. Since I was the oldest, I was usually the ring leader. The goal amongst the three of us was to make sure that we never had a babysitter back twice.
In fact, I will never forget my mom and dad standing in the kitchen flipping through the church directory and my mom expressing her frustration: "None of them are available and I've been through the entire book!"
We were little devils. And for some reason the babysitters never "told" on us. They would just never return. I remember telling made up stories to these poor, innocent teenagers about our house being possessed and then "waking up" long after bed time telling them that my sisters and I heard something scary. They would freak out every single time. And because that still makes me chuckle, I deserve the afternoon headaches brought on by my feisty six-year old.
But then something remarkable happened. My parents found a babysitter who could keep us in line. She expected obedience, she told my parents when we misbehaved, and she was even....nice.
Believe it or not, we became attached to this babysitter. I became especially attached and would cry myself to sleep in the weeks leading up to her college departure. We all shared tears when it was time for her to go (including my parents, who probably feared never finding a sitter again), but she left me with something to remember her by.
I slept with the penguin that she made for me every night as a kid (and it may or may not have accidentally made it into my suitcase when I left for college).
And so, after reliving my childhood for a brief five minutes, I expected my kids to embrace me and let me know that I could keep the penguin as long as I needed.
That's not reality. They reminded me how odd I looked hugging a stuffed penguin and I reluctantly tossed it into the pile, smiling as I remembered the one babysitter who would consistently say "Yes!" to my desperate for a date parents.
My mom and step father are moving into a retirement home in a couple of weeks, leaving the house I grew up in. With the progression of her disease, we're very thankful for a place my mom and step father can live comfortably with extra help. But, change is never easy. And moves are always hard. Because of their physical limitations, I've been handling the majority of the details of the move for them. I've spent the bulk of the time the last several weeks color coding each and every item in the house. Some of the items will go with them, some will go to other family members, and other items will be donated. Each piece of furniture, each setting of silverware - they all get a color.
I've gone through a wave of emotions while doing this chore. In each room of the house, I'm thrown back into time while color coding certain items.
In my sister's room, I found all of our wedding dresses and bridesmaids dresses for each other's weddings. I have distinct and wonderful memories of each one of these events. One of my favorite memories was at my sister Erin's wedding when my husband (who was officiating) finished the last half of his homily using only U2 song titles.
If you don't believe it's possible, you don't know my husband. And while the bridesmaids and groomsmen, also fellow U2 fans, laughed at every phrase, my grandmother said to us afterward, "I thought the word Vertigo was an interesting disease to pick in teaching about the phrase 'in sickness and in health.'"
And in the kitchen while I marked the dishes, I couldn't help but remember standing over the counter watching my dad scoop ice cream into his bowl attempting to see how high he could pile it without the ice cream falling out the bowl (my younger sister comes by her ice cream obsession innocently; it's genetic).
Walking through the bedrooms, there are both happy and sad memories; some have faded, and some feel as though they happened yesterday. Both of my parents had healthy, vibrant days in the house, and both of them grew ill in the house. The items and the furniture around me remind me of both kinds of days.
The beautiful reality is that when the house is emptied in a few weeks time, the memories will not go with all the stuff. Each color coded item will go to it's new place, but the memories will remain. And they will be cherished, I pray, for years to come.
Many would say to let go of the past and simply embrace the present, waiting for whatever is to come. I disagree. The past is significant. It reminds me of God's faithfulness in getting me to this point right here and right now. Each threat of anxiety begs me to look at the past and be reminded of how God has tenderly and mercifully cared for us and gives hope that He will continue to do so in the future.
In fact, I believe it's hard to move forward in this life that is sometimes unclear and foggy without a reminder of the road already traveled. Joy comes with an appreciation of the God-given memories that make up our past, an acceptance of where we currently are, and a confidence in what is to come. Sandra McCracken has a song entitled God's Highway (the link is below). In the song she sings:
My feet are strong, my eyes are clear, I cannot see the way from here. But on we go, He knows the way, and in His arms He keeps me safe.
Fear not. Keep on. Watch and pray. Walk in the light of God's Highway.
You see, it's not the possessions in and of themselves that are significant; it's the meaning and memories behind some of them that have value because they are a part of the road I have traveled. It's not over the stuff that I grieve, nor really in the loss of the house where I grew up, but in the remembrances of what used to be. Those can't be color coded - those will come with me. and in them I'll rejoice.
http://vimeo.com/88185064
