Passing Through

I've developed a bit of an obsession lately.

Estate sales.

Apparently, I'm not alone.

Every weekend, dozens of strangers line up outside homes they've never entered, hoping to discover a hidden treasure before someone else does.

I've become one of them.

At first, I thought I was simply shopping.

I wasn't.

I was walking through someone's life.

Estate sales feel different than antique stores.

I couldn't quite explain why until recently.

Antique stores are full of beautiful things that are inventory.

Estate sales are full of things that once made up a life.

Every room whispers the same thing.

Someone loved this.

This was necessary.

And a million other things.

The recliner wasn't just for watching television.

It was where he drank his coffee every morning.

The kitchen wasn't simply where meals were prepared.

It was where birthdays were celebrated, homework was finished, and family recipes were made often enough that no one needed to look at the recipe card anymore.

The bookshelf wasn't decorated.

It was read.

The garden wasn't landscaped.

It was tended.

I always find myself trying to figure out their story.

Who planted those camellias?

Who chose the painting?

Did they travel?

Did they dance in the kitchen?

Did they pray together?

What did their ordinary days look like?

Sometimes I don't have to imagine.

I overhear little pieces of their lives.

"Mama loved that quilt."

"Dad sat in that chair every single morning."

"We don’t have the room to keep everything."

I usually pretend not to hear.

Those conversations don't belong to me.

But somehow, they make me appreciate the house even more.

Maybe that's why estate sales fascinate me.

They remind me that we never really owned any of it.

We were only its stewards for a little while.

That realization changed everything.

Instead of only wondering how much something was worth, I started wondering how well it had been cared for.

How well it had been loved.

How well its owners had cared for the people inside those walls.

One of my favorite discoveries happens when I turn a painting over

and find the artist’s yellowed business card carefully taped to the back.

No one will ever see it once the painting is hanging.

It wasn't left there for display.

I imagine that it was left there for the next owner.

Me.

Every time I find one, I look up the artist.

I want to know their story.

What else did they paint?

Where did they live?

What inspired them?

Ms. Van Pelt's painting in a place of honor in my home.

I don't just want the painting.

I want the story.

Nosey Rosie!

But then it hits me.

That little business card tells me just as much about the previous owner as it does the artist.

They could have thrown it away years ago.

The painting is signed, after all.

Instead, they left the artist’s details for someone they would never meet.

Not because they had to.

Because they wanted the story to continue.

It feels as though they're reaching across time to shake my hand.

"I'd like you to meet the artist who brought me joy."

An estate sale sticker says,

"$125."

The business card quietly says,

"Her name was..."

One assigns a price.

The other preserves a story.

That little card is proof of how they lived.

Generously.

Kindly.

As a steward instead of an owner.

Of course, I am inspired.

So lately, I've decided to tape my own notes to the backs of paintings and furniture pieces.

Maybe I can share why the piece was important to me.

Maybe I will share who gave it to me.

Sometimes, I’ll just write how it ended up in my possession.

I mean, I love a good story, and I’m hoping the future stewards of my stuff feel the same!

Recently, I bought a print and a painting at a fundraiser for nuns serving in El Salvador.

I think the next owner should know that.

It doesn’t change anything about the piece.

Doesn’t improve its value.

Just tells its story.

It feels like an introduction.

One last kindness.

One steward quietly handing something to the next.

Somewhere between turning over those paintings and walking through a stranger's home, my thoughts shifted.

I stopped wondering about their children.

I started wondering about mine.

One day, my son will probably walk through my home and be tasked with deciding what to keep and what to sell.

He'll pick up the Venice painting he gave me after his trip to Europe.

He’ll run his finger across the dusty antique pieces.

(How do I know it’s dusty? If I’m not dusting them, no one is!)

He'll become overwhelmed by it all. Wondering what’s valuable: the memory or the item.

Maybe he'll keep them.

Maybe he won't.

I hope there are a handful of pieces that he just can’t look away from.

But honestly...

If I've been a good steward, the things won't matter nearly as much as what we shared.

Honestly, I hope he sells most of it.

I hope he buys him and Ty first-class tickets and goes somewhere extraordinary.

I hope they stand on a mountain or beside the ocean and watch a sunrise so beautiful it reminds them of God’s ever-presence.

Aren’t memories easier to carry than paintings and furniture?

And somewhere in all this, I realized.

God never asked me to fill a house with beautiful things.

He asked me to help fill two little boys.

With love.

With security.

With laughter.

With faith.

With stories.

I hope they remember that their daddy missed exactly one football game, and only because he was recovering from open-heart surgery.

I hope Benjamin remembers that his beautiful handwriting is because he was allowed to participate in the occupational therapy exercises when his big brother was having them.

I hope they remember being “Suplexed” onto the bed until they couldn't stop laughing.

I hope Ty remembers my made-up songs.

I hope they remember when dad’s right arm became a cobra that “bit” their chunky sides.

I hope they remember sitting around the kitchen table doing homework together and having snacks.

I hope they remember the smell and taste of my red gravy.

I hope they remember our eyes when they walk into the room.

Pure love and attention.

Sure, life wasn’t perfect.

Ok. I may have yelled once or twice.

(Insert cringe emoji here.)

But I hope what they remember most is that they were deeply loved.

Because one day, hopefully, strangers will walk through my house.

They'll carry away the paintings.

The dishes.

The furniture.

They’ll even take the books that I call my best friends.

Some things will be treasured by another family.

Some will be donated.

Some things may even end up in a landfill.

And that's okay.

Those things were never meant to be my legacy.

They were simply entrusted to me for a little while.

My real stewardship was never the house.

It was the people inside it.

Everything else is just lagniappe.

When the last estate sale sign comes out of the yard, and the last box is loaded into someone's truck, I hope my boys look at each other and smile.

"Thanks, Mom and Dad."

"Thanks for the memories."

Then I hope they rush and catch their flight.