Estate Sale

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I went to an estate sale today.  They differ from garage and yard sales in that their venue is the owner’s home and  the sellers are people other than the owners of the merchandise.   The owners have generally moved to a retirement/elder care situation or are recently deceased, and the home is no longer occupied……at least, not at the time of the estate sale…. 

Some of the merchandise may be put on particular display, but much is left where it was in closets, cupboards, drawers, garages, even barns.  Soap is in the soap dish by the sink, shampoo is in the shower, cinnamon is in the spice rack. 

I don’t think of myself as a sleuth, but as I go through the various items that meant something to someone at sometime, I find myself trying to discover the person behind the manual type-writer, the books written in French, the  canvas rucksack packed with all the essentials:  fishing line, sterile dressing, extra socks, toilet paper in a baggy.  Where were the women’s clothes?  Where were the pictures?  There were hints like the new baby blanket in a bag, a drawer of linen napkins and tablecloths, a box of tired Christmas ornaments, some Hummels.  But the closets were sparsely populated with serviceable jackets and sweaters, and the feminine touch was a distant aroma, more of a memory than than anything else. 

The cramped and elderly  two story house was crowded with things that only the owner could have understood or wanted.  It was also crowded with people, hoping for the ‘find’.  One after another picked through every frame in a box, every family album on a shelf, every shirt  in every closet, every whisk or spatula or in every drawer.  And the accumulations of the owner, things with which he was unwilling to part, were quickly dispersed with no thought, no sentiment, no hope for the future. 

I could tell he must have been born in the late 20’s or early 30’s.   I think his wife must have died before he left this house–a house he probably called home for decades– and here was his frazzled son, selling his worldly goods at a moment’s notice with no prices and no help.  And here were all of we consumers, accruing things for our children to go through and dispose of down the road.  Vultures. 

At least, that’s how it felt.  I didn’t want his stuff, afterall.  I wanted him to be able to still be at home with his loving wife, having his children over for Saturday evening dinner and taking a long, peaceful nap on Sunday afternoon.  I wished he were there to put on his barn coat and go work in his garage in the late fall, knowing that on his return, the house would be filled with the smells of vegetable soup and an apple pie; the sight of his laughing wife, hair out of place and rosy cheeked.

I understood better why Jesus said that death is the final enemy.  Final is the operative word.  No more reading about tying flies.  No more sitting in the chair by the fireplace.  No more need for the phone or the cutting board or the barn coat.  No more beloved voices.

But we do not grieve as those who have no hope.  Death, afterall, is swallowed up in victory–the victory we have through our Lord Jesus Christ, who tasted death for us all.  And Christ Himself is the Door.   Death is the beginning for Christians.

This comforts me more and more, the older I get.  I feel melancholy at estate sales, but I know whom I’ve believed and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him against that day. 

I think I’ll go clean out a drawer.

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