When we moved our mother into Assisted Living at the age of 90, my sisters and I, along with Mom’s guidance, sorted through her lifetime accumulation of stuff and carefully selected those things that held special memories for us – things that just could not be parted with, those important family heirlooms that had been a part of our lives for as long as we could remember. After setting aside those things, we invited our children to come and look over her belongings and select mementos that were meaningful to them. Except for the few pieces of furniture, bookshelves, and books that she would take to her tiny new apartment, the rest of her things were either sold at a grand moving sale, which she herself presided over, or they were donated to a thrift store sponsored by a local charity. One by one, as each piece of her life was sold to become a part of someone else’s life, she would often regale the happy recipient with stories of how the items they had chosen to purchase had come into her life. Often, the purchaser would then feel compelled to tell her how they intended to use the item they had chosen. I noticed that Mom was not only happy to know that her belongings were finding new homes, but the burden of simply owning them was being lifted from her shoulders. She was at peace and was able to move into her new situation without regret or a backward glance. She lived happily there for eight more years until the Lord called her home.
The Christmas I was five, I received a pink wooden doll crib and a Betsy-Wetsy baby doll. With both sentimentality and doll-collecting in my DNA, I shamelessly carted that doll and her bed around with me into young adulthood, motherhood, and even grand-motherhood. Whenever I changed residences, Betsy and her crib came along with me. I always managed to find a place for them, be it a shelf in the closet or a box in the garage. For seventeen years, Betsy resided in a plastic storage bin in an attic while the crib, disassembled, found refuge from decay in a large black plastic lawn & leaf bag. Time has not been kind to Betsy. While her head is still intact, her little rubber body is crumbling to dust, her fingers and toes having long ago fallen off, and her little white organdy christening gown and bonnet are yellow and brittle with age.
Not long after we moved into our current home, I decided to repurpose my little wooden doll crib and I turned it into a planter on our back patio. I found a plastic liner that fit the interior dimensions of the crib perfectly and lined it with jute and then filled it with potting soil. I knew that weather and water would eventually destroy the little bed, but I was finally ready to let it go. It had had a good long run, and I knew that soon I would be able to say good-bye to it willingly. It lasted another two or three years before it became so moldy and soggy that it was ready for the trash can. When the day came to part with it, instead of feeling sad and nostalgic, I felt strangely liberated. The little crib was something I no longer had to worry about.
Instead of sadness, that same feeling of liberation comes over me each time I pass some keepsake on to a younger generation, each time I gather old photographs and shred them because only my parents knew who they were (great uncle Charlie’s step-son’s cousin’s neighbor before they left Michigan). Am I stripping my home bare? Destroying evidence of my family’s heritage? Hardly! I still have plenty of mementos that I cling to, but where I used to worry about what would become of them when I am gone, they have become less and less important to me. I am loosening my grip on “those things that moth and rust corrupts, and thieves break in to steal.”
There is nothing wrong with sentimentality. It is a God-given character trait given to some and not to others. Some see value in things that trigger pleasant memories and happy times, while others disdain the flotsam and jetsam of a cluttered life and prefer a more austere environment. Most of us fall somewhere in the middle. However, to varying degrees we all are prone to cling to something, whether it is china passed down from one generation to another, artwork handed down or purchased at auction, heirloom jewelry; or even relationships, political ideologies, or sports. And therein lies the problem. When we cling to them with a tight grip and are unwilling to let them go, when we allow these things to become so important that they become idols, aren’t we in danger of stepping on the toes of a jealous God? The One who said, “Thou shalt have no other gods before Me.” (Deuteronomy 5:6-7)? We can make anything an idol. Not long ago, in my daily Bible reading, I read about the Chaldean army, that had made their own might their god (Habakkuk 1:6-11). As a nation, are we relying on our own strength instead of God’s? Have we made our might our god? I fear that if we do not loosen our grip on that idea, God will loosen it for us.
More than anything, I want God to assume His rightful place in my heart, in my life, and in my nation. I want to loosen my grip on the things and ideas that take my eyes off of Him.
Jesus said it best in His Sermon on the Mount: “Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. (Matthew 6:19-21)
Hold your earthly treasures with an open hand; your heavenly treasures may be given to Jesus for safekeeping. They will be waiting for you when you arrive home.
©Eva M. Allen, 2022