We have moved several times and with each move have come boxes and more boxes. Surveying the scene before me after a couple of years of unpacking, I can see that there is still much work to be done. Books are waiting for bookshelves, we have an odd assortment of furniture, and boxes of papers to go through. There are toys that the kids have outgrown, but I am not ready to let go of these just yet.

Some of you would hardly be able to contain your excitement. You would rub your hands together, grab trash bags and with great enthusiasm, toss out every stack and box regardless of what they contained. Ah, but the problem is that you cannot see what I see.

Almost everything in our humble home has little monetary value, only sentimental significance. Inside the front door is a used filing cabinet that holds most of over twenty years of my writing.  The cabinet is a recent gift and the first one to store only my writing pieces. My in-laws gave us a desk when the kids were very young, and we stayed with them for a few months. This desk is even more precious since my father-in-law’s death. Head into the dining room and have a seat at the table, the set, a gift from church friends when they purchased a new one. Hanging by the side door are a couple of Granny’s tattered aprons, simple reminders of my grandparents’ farm. Inside the kitchen cabinets are golden-colored glasses that came in oatmeal boxes when I was a child. Upstairs and downstairs are furniture pieces from friends, old and new. And then, there is a lamp that Mom purchased with green stamps; priceless after she passed away.

I wrote the following poem after sorting through box after box and the memories they contained.

The Memory Legacy

It’s a house of legacy, you see.

Inside these four walls are contained,
years of memories slowly attained.

You see mismatched furniture and projects galore,
I see special gifts from those who walked through our hearts’ doors.

I will not pretend that I don’t occasionally desire,
new matching furniture or fashionable attire.

But here, within these walls,
hand-me-downs reign,
as my heart remembers each story they contain.

Residing in many different towns,
these belongings have traveled some ground.

The walls are adorned with maps and charts,
family pictures, and pieces of unmatched art.

You see a pile,
a heap to be conquered.

I see the memories,
to be savored;
not forgotten.

by
Delores Brouillette Adams

Words like sentimentality and reminisce apply to my state of mind when it comes to these items. I don’t worship them; they are not idols. But each serves as a memorial, helping me remember a person, a season of life, or a place that represents something precious to our family. As I walk through each room, I remember loved ones and what the Lord hath done. These memories are absolutely priceless.

“Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God.” (ESV, Ps. 20:7)