Every Christmas season, our family would host an "open house"- my mom's way of thanking the church family for their support throughout the year. Our home would brim with guests, and smell rich of soups and sweet breads. As the church grew, we eventually overflowed our house, and so moved the "open house" to the church fellowship hall. My brother and I would tote floor lamps and photos to make the space feel home-y. We'd bring wheelbarrow-fulls of our platters and dishes, to keep from using the white church ware. In some moments, we felt as if we really transformed the place and the whole effort was worth it.
I remember one late night, hauling armful after wheelbarrow-full back to the parsonage. Finally, my brother piled his arms to bursting with some of my mother's dearest dishes. It was like Gus Gus in the Disney Cinderella, piling his arms with corn kennels. Soon enough, through the brisk, cold air of a winter night, we all heard a crash and knew- all those dishes had fumbled out of his arms and smashed on the driveway.
Things break.
It doesn't have to be a big crash of memory-ridden dishes. One mug. One bowl. A blue stemmed wine glass, or a simple, clear vase. Any of these things slip, drop, or are nudged in the wrong direction and a crack can form. So often, when things break, we suddenly remember their value all the clearer. "That mug was a gift from so-and-so." "That glass was my grandmothers."
I wish we could set our hearts on the deep value all the time. Not of glasses and vases and things, but of people and words and growth. I fear that it is not just with dishes that we delay recognizing our deep attachment. Then a crack forms, and we are faced with the agonizing potential that we took something, someone, for granted.
you are such a beautiful writer. Seriously inspiring every time. No pressure though. :)
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