Housewife Memoriam to Material Goods

Yesterday was a riot of domesticity at the J. household.


The snow flurries, cold, and spring break lack of homework gave me time for a much belated task: that of making good kitchen cupboard space for our weddingware and letting the singleware pass on to Good Will...which was rather sad for me.



If I could keep all the stuff I would, but there is no room and it is a waste for them to sit useless for the sake of my sentimentality. This set of bowls and plates was particularly difficult for me to say goodbye to:



Looking at them takes me back to the night I got them. It was cold and raining-- October in Grand Rapids. I had been living there for a month in basements and guest rooms, and had finally found a place of my own: a lofty adorable studio in an old 100-year old furniture company recently transformed into an apartment building. The only drawback was that I didn't own a stick of furniture, not to mention kitchenware. Given, this was partly my own fault: I was happier in an empty room sleeping on the floor than I was with relational hand-me-downs, a fault that I can't say I've grown out of... But there I was, alone for the first time. I had just begun my teaching career and my days and nights were hazy with lesson plans, new schedules, and new faces. I was on my way home from church on a Wednesday night, feeling a bit sorry for myself in that I was going back to an empty room, with not even a phone line yet. I was wondering what I would eat for breakfast the next morning and how I would be able to eat it without silver ware. I stepped into the elevator to go up to my place and almost ran into my father, who was in the act of stepping off.

I was surprised to see him--he had come to wish me well in my new home. He took me to Meijer (Midwest superstore) and shoppped with me for the earthenware 20 piece set, the silver ware 20 piece set, and a new blender in addition to enough groceries to last me for the next month. He stayed long enough to help install a few lightbulbs and to meet Jeff the doorman, then disappeared into the night to face the rainy 125 mile highway home.

And so my first night in a new place was transformed from a memory of loneliness to one of family and love. And these simple red plates and bowls have been a constant reminder of such things every time I moved to a new place and unpacked them--which has happened 5 times since that rainy night in October. Now I dispatch them to be symbols in someone else's journey, with a prayer that they will continue to be gifts of love.

So farewell to my dear plates who may outlive me. They may end up family heirlooms, or in a landfill, or in a museum long after my time. I will pass on while they remain here. I shouldn't be attached to things--You can't take it with You as Kaufman/Capra would say. These plates have a final destination and will ultimately not be of much importance in the end. But my father's timely generosity, an echo of our Heavenly Father, will last forever.