Her whole life was dumped out of a drawer onto the bed where she’d never sleep again.
My sisters-in-law and I gathered together in the bedroom of our father-in-law and mother-in-law and looked through handkerchiefs, hairpins, notes, lists, p
erfume, cough drops, photos, and lotions. Our mother-in-law had only sons, and so it was left to the daughters-in-law to go through the dresser drawers and decide on what to do with things for which our men had no use.
And there we were, like a rabble of grave robbers, pilfering through little items that she had saved away in her dresser for daily use or for sentimental value. “Do you want this? Could you use this?” We tried to guess at what things meant, but we couldn’t have known the weight she gave to these trinkets. We approached our duty lovingly, with tears and little laughs and sometimes “oh, this looks like Mama.” But I couldn’t get away from the incongruity of a life of more than threescore and ten in which the remnants were a small pile of treasured baubles scattered on a worn bedspread.
Our lives are comprised of conquering the hurdles of schedules and health and family obligations, and keeping the wolf away from the door, but, in the end, it is the things we deliberately squeeze in that are of more consequence than the daily survival victories we score. The things that tell the story of who we are are the notes in our Bibles and the pictures we frame and the titles on our bookshelves and media spaces, and the songs are on our playlists, and the clues to what we cherished in the private moments when we didn’t have onlookers who cared what we d
id. And, in these things, my mother-in-law shined in grace and godliness.
She didn’t have a media space other than cassette tapes and CDs that she and my father-in-law listened to regularly nor did she have a digital playlist, but she did leave lots of framed pictures of family and a well-used Bible and personal words of encouragement and admonition and trust in God that she voiced to many lives. We knew her commitment to Jesus and her testimony, and we were satisfied. We were certain. We were filled with hope. These knickknacks cast on a bed she’d never need again were only tiny fragments of humanity; they could never reveal the full-scale beauty of her life.
As we travel up the highway today on the way to a dear friend’s funeral visitation and service, I remember that day that I have been processing since 2013. When it comes to the end, we must be more than a mound of artifacts from everyday life; we must be treasure rooms for the eternities. When our loved ones tread tearfully into the cache, may every single relic confirm what they know about us – yes, we were bodies that had need ofcough drops and safety pins, but we were, more than that, souls who simply transitioned to another location where the loves of our life go on and on. There is no change in the godly life from earth to heaven in terms of what is loved most – it is a continuation of life with Jesus, now face to face, and of love for the dear ones we expect to join us beyond the galaxy of time. The scraps of our lives are sanctified and sacred, and our souls fly away without a glance backward, because what matters is always ahead of us. Thanks be to God.
But the path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day. Proverbs 4:18
