VALUABLES AND INVALUABLES

My mother prepared me well for this journey to Beyrouth.   

She died this past summer, so she didn't get to accompany us far.  But she was already praying about  Middle East University's request for Larry's curriculum vitae...a scary-sounding title for 26 pages of professional information. 

Beautiful Gramma!

But for three, maybe four, years she and I spent my visits sifting through pictures of people she couldn't remember.  Memorabilia that had morphed into meaninglessness.  Yellowed school-teacher  files of wild edible plants and the history of Maryland.  Three times during those years we went through her clothes, pulling out blouses she hadn't worn in seven  years and a sweater she bought in Scotland in 1975 and finally dresses that would never go to church again.

I knew we were sorting through treasures she couldn’t part with eight years ago.  Real life from 15 years ago.  Memories of 25 years ago.  But she knew as well as I did that what had once been important…had no value anymore.  The pile destined for the dump grew.   She held on to things loosely.

The exercise was a gift to me.  I found myself well-calibrated to let go and throw.

I’ve never been a collector, but even the minimalist in me has held onto wrapping paper for next Christmas, a guinea pig’s cage, rusty yard tools, odd dinner plates and plenty more reasonable junk.  As I'm sorting through my own things now, I’ve realized that unused stuff however well organized is still just stuff.  And potential value—the possibility that something might some day be useful or important—is still iffy.

So we’re taking pictures of Trek 960 bicycles, a Wells Cargo mini-trailer, Jansport D2 backpacks for Craigslist.  We’re mentally tagging furniture for the moving sale, stuffing trash cans and collecting a garage full of all that might be valuable to someone else.

The very process presses the reality:  Most of the things we own are dispensable.  If I give this away, if I let go of that, if someone else owns this, I’ll still be me.  We'll still have each other.  Life will still carry rich meaning.  

I have to admit that I'm "letting go and throwing away" with the satisfaction of someone losing weight.  When life is lighter, it’s easier to move, to change, to get on with the journey.  For once I’m not measuring a valuable by how much room I have to store it.  I’m measuring it by how well I could continue in life without it.

I also find it easier to identify the invaluable:  Tracing the long history with my Bible study circle.  Hearing our pastor-friends sing "God Be WithYou."   Hugging a senior friend I may not see again—until heaven.  Having a son burst into the house, regretting how far away we will be and hoping we won't die over there.  Maybe that's why I'm planning to bubble-wrap the glass-dipped rose a son gave me years ago. It is tangible for sure.  It’s also valuable; it cost $60.  But it expresses the invaluable.  It will look beautiful catching the southern sun on the window ledge of my little Lebanese house.

Of course, if it shatters in my carry-on during the flight over, I will be terribly disappointed.  But I'll still have the love that it represents.

Come to think of it.  When I meet my mother in heaven and tell her what God did in my life while she rested, we won’t have any of this stuff that clutters our lives.