I think I've told you this before: I'm a chucker. Meaning, if I haven't used it, worn it, or eaten it in the past year, it's gone. Okay, maybe not the eaten it thing. That was a joke. My mother, however, had a cardboard egg carton caterpillar from my year in Pre-K (?) Kindergarten (?) in her dresser drawer until I was well into my teen years. I made her throw it out. I really did see it as ridiculous.
When my children were small, my "chucker-iness" caused me to develop the habit of taking pictures of all of my children's projects and favorite outfits. Besides, they were homeschooled, so pictures were a huge part of their end-of-the-year portfolios. Pictures were much more accommodating to my dislike for clutter than cardboard egg carton caterpillars.
Fast forward to my 50s. A friend from Kindergarten and I reconnect. He gushes with his love for our elementary school, our teachers, our classmates --things I hadn't thought of in at least forty years. Listening to his fervor stokes my fire. I begin to put faces with the names he invokes. I recall the events and occasions he recounts. And I see my mom, the meticulous, faithful homeroom mother through the eyes of one of my then classmates. What was the ridiculous preservation of egg carton to me was to him another nurturing act by an adult who lived to make the lives of children a place of wonder and happiness.
As I began to search through the relics of my childhood that remained, I saw my mother's collection of class photos, meticulously labeled with each child's name (even those that were absent that day). I found baby bracelets and locks of hair. My mother was a curator of history --mine and that of our family. She has kept obituaries and death notices of most of my aunts and uncles, biological and in-laws as well. She has kept rationing notices and memorabilia from World War 2. She has pictures of every Easter basket I ever had since I first drew breath and every Easter outfit, complete with gloves, hankie, and a new purse, since I could stand. She took pictures of each of our Halloween costumes which she handmade each year until I was in junior high (the costumes themselves were disposed of shortly after I graduated high school). Mom was a HOME maker in the truest sense of the word. She preserved history by preserving life and death. She saved for me and for anyone willing to sit through my 3D "slide show" a record of life --good and bad. She created a place to call home within my heart, reminders of the past, those things that, in part, made me who I am today.
But there is a point to all of this --more than just making you wish you had a mom like mine. The point is, what we leave behind for others is important --even if it's not important to them right away. I think we've all had those people we have tried to connect with or guide or maybe share the good news of Jesus with, and they just weren't having it. Ephesians 2:10 tells us there are good works God has planned for His children to do. Galatians 6:9 tells us we shouldn't grow weary or discouraged in doing those things; "in due season we will reap if we do not lose heart." Maybe those folks will come to appreciate what we've said or done --isn't that what we want? Wouldn't that be ideal? But we all have free will and we all have the right to miss the boat. Nevertheless, Paul tells us, we will reap. There is something we as the keepers, the homemakers, the forgivers, the guides, the proclaimers, the memory-makers will receive through our efforts to walk in the good things God tasks us with doing. Just as long as we keep obeying, following the path Christ has laid out for us in the roles we have been given.
As curators and as chuckers, but always in love.
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