Herald or Hoarder?

Sunday 6/29/2014 5:08 AM

Jaci and I spent the last five days in Phoenix with my brother, Rod, and sister, Miriam, visiting with Mom and going through everything at Mom’s house, saving what we wanted, throwing away things no longer needed and getting the house ready for an estate sale in a couple of weeks.

Mom saved everything.  She had tax records for every year since 1961 with all supporting documents.  She saved medical receipts, including medications, since the 1960s.  Since Dad and Ruth had substantial health issues there were plenty to go around.  She saved the owner’s manuals to every appliance she ever bought.  All were in pristine condition.  She saved used rubber bands, paper clips, stubby pencils, dried out ink pens, empty Band-Aid containers, old razors, and more.  She had the labels from her mattresses warning that, under penalty of law, they could not be removed, except by the owner; all carefully arranged in order from oldest to newest and stapled together.  The list could go on.

For me, the saddest things were the new items we found that had never, or seldom, been used.  There was a set of dishes I only remember using one time for a Thanksgiving dinner.  We found a beautiful, well-made tablecloth that had the label still attached, probably a gift from a friend.  There was a pitcher and a matching set of juice glasses decorated with hand-painted flowers that would have been perfect for serving ice cold lemonade to friends or family on a hot summer day that had never been used.  There was an Annie Rooney and Zero children’s tea set, still in the box, that Mom had played with as a child that had been stored away, too precious for her own children or grandchildren to play with.  The list could go on.

Some of the most precious things were the boxes of pictures, hidden deep within the bowels of the closet, of Mom and Dad in their younger years when we were little or before we were born.  In all of my childhood memories Dad was sick and unable to play or move about freely.  He spent much time in bed or sitting in a chair recuperating from some illness or simply trying to catch his breath, a difficult thing when one has emphysema, as he did.  My childhood memories of Mom were of someone who was constantly caring for Dad before he died and caring for Ruth, who has cerebral palsy.  Things always seemed serious and there was little time for frivolity or fun, understandably so.  But the pictures revealed a different side that I never knew existed.  In one, Dad’s arms were wrapped around Mom who was leaning back into him, young lovers with smiling faces.  There was a picture of them together under pine trees in the mountains and with friends on the beach in Chicago, places I never knew they had gone.  In one photo Mom was enjoying a picnic with her children, sitting on a blanket under a tree in the front yard, seemingly without a care in the world.  It would have been nice to have been a part of that side of Dad and Mom.

The safe deposit box at the bank also contained precious things.  The jewelry included Dad’s ruby ring that Mom gave him as an engagement gift, his wedding band and high school class ring, his watch, the bracelet he wore in the hospital after he was born, a string of pearls Dad gave Mom as a wedding gift, Grandma Bandstra’s mother’s ring, Grandma Hugen’s locket, and Great Grandpa’s cuff links.  There were also the letters my Dad had written Grandma Hugen that usually described his current health and the accomplishments of us kids.  Because of his poor health they were often quite serious but the letters were punctuated with occasional jokes and puns, showing Dad’s dry wit and humor.  Interspersed in the prose of the letters were constant references to God’s provision for our family through the generosity of our church family and friends and through the forgiveness of a substantial loan by Grandma Hugen.

All of those things were hidden away in closets or safe deposit boxes.  I always felt loved by my parents and I recognized God’s provision for the family over the years but it always seemed as if I did so individually.  Things were seldom recognized or celebrated as a family, much less in the broader Christian community.  It is easy to be critical of people without walking in their shoes but it seems like the difficult circumstances of Mom’s life overwhelmed her.  I envision her going to her closet or safe deposit box when she was distraught in order to remember the good times and to remind herself of God’s provision through the years but she didn’t share it with me and my siblings or with anyone else of which I am aware.  Perhaps she was ashamed that she couldn’t provide everything she wanted for her family or she couldn’t deal with all the adversity she had to face on her own.   It seems as if she hoarded both the joy and the pain of her life, afraid to let others into her private world for fear of what they might think or say.

I wonder how different her life might have been had she chosen to herald the joy and the pain of her life rather than to hoard it.  Imagine what might have happened if she had worn her double strand of pearls, or Grandma’s mother’s ring, or locket and people had asked her about them.  She could have shared the joy of her wedding day and the love she had for my dad.  She could have shared the joy of being loved by her mother and the pain she experienced at her mother’s untimely death, three weeks after the death of my dad and on the morning of the day we were to fly back to Iowa to visit her.  She could have related God’s provision for our family throughout the years by the loving acts of family members and the church.

I want to live my life more transparently, sharing my joys and difficulties with my immediate family and with the broader community.  I want to herald both God’s goodness to me, and his grace through the times of trying circumstances, so that I can be supported in the difficulties and others can be encouraged in theirs.  I pray that God will give me grace to be a herald and not a hoarder.