A Tale of a Table

We had a huge garage sale several weeks ago.   And I learned three unrelated lessons during this huge garage sale:

1. We have too much stuff.
2. I had been very restless for a long period of time.
3. My husband and I don’t do tasks together very well.

So about number three: there is a lot of love there, and frankly, when this question was presented at one point: If you had to be stuck with someone on a deserted island for one year of your life, who would it be?  I chose him.

And he chose Bono.   So I changed my answer, of course.

True love, folks.

So as much fun as we have together, working through projects is not our forte.  God brought together two opposites to do life and ministry, and I’m quite certain that watching us tackle a task is nothing short of comical.  When it came to setting up the sale,  I wanted to get the stuff spread out, and my husband wanted to categorize it.  I wanted to just do, and he wanted to plan.

I don’t get planners.  I never have.  I just “do” when something needs to be done and usually give very little thought to the actual process (which could be why bookshelves I’ve put together have holes in them and rooms I’ve painted have paint-splattered baseboards.  It could be why).  If it seems like a good idea…I go for it.  If it seems like a good idea…my husband considers it.  We’ve often said that if he were the only parent, our kids wouldn’t have much fun, but if I were the only parent, our kids would die.  So, we’re basically good for each other.  And the world needs both kinds.

And about the first lesson:  We have not purged enough over the years, there’s little doubt about that, but some of what we were selling at this garage sale belonged to my mom.  Shorty after she went to heaven, my sisters and I spent significant time going through her things deciding what was trash and what was treasure.  For those who haven’t gone through this process, it’s emotionally draining but can also be rather entertaining.   Basically everything is justified as a treasure – mom’s diplomas, her high school love letters, her spoons and forks, and all the things I made fun of mom for owning (like numerous tall, gaudy goblets).  Since I’m the only sibling who lived in town with mom, many of these “treasures” found their way to my home where they remained until I decided I just didn’t have room for things like numerous tall, gaudy goblets.  So the goblets, along with several other items from moms that I didn’t have the space to store, went into the garage sale.

A friend asked me if I would be OK selling some of mom’s things.  “Totally,” was my answer.  My sisters and I kept what was significant to us, so I was totally fine selling everything else.  Totally fine.

Which is why I had two emotional break downs during our garage sale.  The first was tied to the numerous tall, gaudy goblets.  A women asked if she could have them for half of the marked  price.  And that was the wrong question.  Was she prepared for the detailed description of how many christmases those goblets sat around my mom’s table?  Probably not.  Did she anticipate my unsolicited advice on what drink to put into the tall, gaudy goblets?  My guess is no.  She looked a little confused (I have no earthly idea why), which is probably what led to her subsequent question:  “Do you really want to sell these?”

Totally.  I told myself I was “totally fine” while I rolled up each goblet with newspaper.  I told myself I was “totally fine” when I collected the women’s money and told her through blurred eyes to take good care of the goblets.

For the love of tall, gaudy goblets.

While I pulled myself together rather quickly, I could feel the emotions bubbling, and I knew my husband could sense them beginning to boil as well.  It’s the same kind of sense that a dog has when a storm is coming and begins showing signs of concern and fear.

Yes, I just compared my husband’s intuitions to that of a dog, but he also chose a year on an island with Bono.  So, that’s pretty much fair.

The reality is that he can sense my emotional storms.  If you have intuitive husbands, you may know what I’m talking about.  The goblet questioning was the warning sign, and the selling of my mom’s table was the ensuing storm.

It was a marble table that had been in my mom’s house for as long as I can remember.  I just didn’t have room for it and my sisters were OK getting rid of it.  So I was totally fine selling it.  Totally fine.

We exchanged the money with a gentleman who let us know he’d be back shortly with his van.  All was good until we picked up the marble top and I noticed the writing on the underside of the marble:   John O. Buswell, New York City.  It was the name of my great-grandfather and the city where he lived when he was a young man.

I’m not entirely sure that my family knew how to react when the emotional storm rolled in – hug her, pat her on the back, tell her “it’s OK,” sing to her….admit her….were all considerations when I yelled out through unexpected tears:  “That’s my great-grandpa’s name!” and followed the table to the truck like a two year old running after her mom.  Not quite understanding myself what my problem was, I began handing out bits of information about my family while the man put the table in the back of his van.  Because why wouldn’t he want to know about a total stranger’s mom who passed away, and about her goblets, and about my great-grandfather who lived in  New York for a period of time.  Every bit of information that came to mind that I felt might be pertinent, just made my existence at the back of this man’s van more and more awkward.

My younger two stood in the street with me while he pulled away.  And then I said this to my daughter:  “Run after that van.”  To which she responded:  “Now?”

Now?!  Was she seriously going to chase it?  And did I seriously ask her to chase it?  Yes, folks.  Yes, I did.  And I do think she would have gone after that van had I not responded with:  “No, it’s OK.  I got the license plate number.”

I mentally noted the license plate number.  I mentally noted the license plate number.

Good.  Grief.  

And I’d like to say that once I came out of my FBI movie and back into the reality of my garage sale, that I was able to pull myself together.

But, no.  I stomped through the garage and blamed my husband through my tears.  Because, of course, my table despair, the table that I decided to sell, was somehow his fault.  I might as well have gone into my Italian Mob voice pulling my husband by the collar saying:  “I got his license, and I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”  The scene was pretty much that ridiculous.    

I mean, can you blame him for wanting to spend a year with Bono?  At times I think not.

I let my tears flow while I sat on the living room floor and tried to sort through my restlessness that I knew was much more extensive than the sale of this table.  Why on earth did I make a mental note of this man’s license plate number?  

My youngest, who would have gladly chased down that van had I not devised the better plan of noting license plates, came inside and plopped down on the carpet next to me.  She handed me a card without saying anything.  On the front of the card there was a woman spewing tears everywhere.

She had it pretty right on – crazy woman look and all.  In fact, I told my daughter several weeks later that I was reflecting on the table incident, and she sighed deeply saying,  “Oh, great.  Are you gonna do that crying again?”

But then on the inside of her card was a picture of the table and it said: “It is gone, but it will be in your heart forever.”  

“Mom, you can always remember what that table looked like.  So, don’t be sad.  And we also have his license plate.  Right?”

Her statement.  If ever there was a better picture of God’s abundant grace in the midst of messing up my kid.

There’s no doubt that the table in many ways represented the enormous loss of mom, dad, and even my grandfather who passed away a month after mom.  But it was also a strange and inexplicable longing of all that is temporal.  There is crazy satisfaction in keeping all that I have been given in the control of my space and my care – everything from my possessions, to my jobs, my health, and even my kids.  When I can control these things, when I can keep them around and well enough to satisfy my anxiety, my emptiness, and my longing, it’s pretty fulfilling.

But it’s not lasting.  None of it is.  Stuff gets sold (and license plates become memorized), jobs come and go, our health is unpredictable no matter how hard we try, and one slip off their bike or a bad day at school because of bullies, and we’re reminded that we are not in control of our kids.  They don’t ultimately belong to us.  

But because of the promise of the gospel, because of Jesus, none of this results in despair.  Because of Jesus who holds all things and loved ones in His hand, we don’t despair.  Because His steadfast love does not dwindle, we don’t despair.   Because God, the creator of all of this – all of this – remains on his throne in the midst of seemingly hopeless political climates, we don’t despair.  Because the Lord loves righteousness and brings justice, even when it seems that injustice wins and the unrighteous prosper, we don’t despair.  Because the gospel brings peace into the world when violence permeates our society, we don’t despair.  He has not moved and He cannot be shaken.  We don’t despair because God is God and He is Sovereign.  We don’t despair because He not only knows what tomorrow will bring, He has allowed it, ordained it, and is King over it.  Despair cannot be found between the lines when Jesus remains the same yesterday, today, and forever, but peace surfaces when we hold fast to these truths.

“Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.”  

We feel loss deeply, as we ought.  We were made to grieve brokenness, change, and all that slips through our grip, as tight as that hold may be.  But we can confidently hold fast to the Words God has spoken without fear of them changing and with joy in the hope they give.  In His word we find the promise of eternity; we find hope, security, peace, and longing for all that is to come.

Jesus, come quickly that all may be restored again, including our own brokenness in believing that we are “totally fine” in our restlessness, filling the disquiet in our lives with all that doesn’t ultimately satisfy.

About that second lesson of being restless for a long time:  the Lord will use anything and everything to refocus and remind us where our security ultimately reigns.

Grace.  That marble table has become far more significant than it ever would have been sitting in my living room.

And I can’t remember the license plate number anymore.  It’s gone.

And my restlessness left with it.  

“Our hearts are restless until they find rest in Thee.”

(Augustine, Confessions).