Nov
28
2018
The Little Box
Posted in Family Life 10 Comments
I met my friend for breakfast.
We try to get together at least once a year so we can catch up.
I knew that this breakfast would be a bit different.
My friend is grieving.
My friend’s father died.
His death is about one year after the death of her mother.
Losing someone we love is terribly hard.
Losing someone we love around the holidays is especially difficult.
When a loved one dies this time of year, a sadness clouds what is usually a joyful time.
The person who is grieving may not want to decorate and celebrate.
Everyone grieves differently.
There is no correct way to grieve.
My friend has been an amazing daughter to her parents.
She lives close to me.
Her parents; however, lived in another state.
She would often make the five hour drive to visit them and care for them.
My friend told me that the death of her mother, a year ago, was hard.
My friend admitted that the death of her father is much more difficult.
I listened to her try to explain why that might be.
I found myself remembering.
I spoke of my own memory that was similar to what she is experiencing.
I took care of my aunt, my mother’s sister, I began.
When she died, it was hard for me; I couldn’t understand why until one day it came to me.
There was no one with whom I could ask, ‘Do you remember when I was five?’
A connection to my past was gone.
There was no one left for me to talk to who would remember the same things.
My friend smiled knowingly.
She realized that a vital connection to her past was gone.
She spoke of her father’s woodworking ability.
She told me of the wooden animals he made.
He attached strings to some of the animals, which made them into wonderful marionettes.
She learned woodworking and whittling skills from her father.
Even though the attic had been emptied a while ago, the basement will be difficult.
That is where all of my dad’s tools are located, she said wistfully.
My friend has three sons, who are grown and married.
She has three grandchildren as well.
There is the stuff of death.
There is settling the estate.
There is going through the house.
There are the memories in every crevice and every corner.
I am dreading going back to the house, she told me.
Really, I am dreading leaving the house, knowing someone else will live there.
I can go in the backyard and see myself playing ball.
I can see myself sitting at the fireplace with friends.
Every inch of that house has memories.
It will be so hard to leave it behind.
I could see her sadness; I could feel it.
I thought of a passage from a book I read long ago.
When someone you love dies, and you’re not expecting it, you don’t lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time—the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes—when there’s a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she’s gone, forever—there comes another day, and another specifically missing part. ( A Prayer for Owen Meany)
My friend was remembering the pieces.
They are close to her.
They are a part of her.
She is missing her father and the pieces of him that are still in that house.
There are times when a thought comes to me that can only be from the Lord.
One such thought came as my friend was talking.
I tumbled the thought and decided to articulate it.
I have a suggestion, I began.
Go buy yourself a pretty, little box, I told her.
Bring it with you when you go back to the house.
Go from room to room and remember, with the open box in your hands.
Go out into the backyard and gather all the memories from there as well.
Then, as a solemn liturgy, close the box with your memories tucked inside.
Put your exquisite little box on the mantle.
Every time you look at the box, you will know that your memories are safely inside.
The little box will be a physical reminder of the memories in your heart.
Oh, I like that, my friend said tenderly.
I could see her thinking.
I could see her imagining.
I could see her remembering.
I thank my God every time I remember you. (Philippians 1:3)
It was time to leave the restaurant.
We each had places to go and things to do.
I think I’m going to go out and buy a little box, my friend decided.
I hope she found one; an exquisite little box for her memories.
Gina,
Thanks for spending this quality time with Janis. I know she treasures your advice, and I know what you shared helped her a lot. Her mother and father were very special people. I am also fortunate to also have some great memories of them. It is probably rare today to have in-laws that treat you as if you were their own child. My in-laws did that for me, and I am grateful for their life and legacy. That is a memory of them that I will treasure now and always.
Gordon,
Janis is very special to me. I am thankful to the Lord for that simple idea. I am so delighted that it blessed her and made a difficult situation a bit easier. Janice sent me a picture of the box she found. It is perfect. God is good.
Gina
Gina, your “Little Box” hit a soft spot with me. My oldest sibling, Linda, died two years ago. Being 4.5 years older than I, I frequently called her to help me remember certain facts about the family. Most of the time she came up with the information I was looking for. Now, I often wish I could just call Linda to get some answers.
I am a bit of a collector. I have hand-written notes from our son who died almost 20 years ago at the age of 23. Among other things I have is some cuttings of my mother’s beautiful auburn hair. I’m not sure, but I think it was the first time she had her hair cut as a kid. She would have been 110 today. Obviously, these items are kept not to worship but as a kind rememberance.
When one is a young boy, it is felt that diaries are for girls. As one approaches old age, diaries can be real treasures.
Jeff, your memories are tender ones. Whether you wrote them down or not, those memories are tucked away in your heart. I think saving things, that mean a lot to you, is so important. Whether they fit in a little box or not, does not matter. They are forever in your heart to pull out whenever you need them.
Gina
Sometimes I think it will take more than a little box to hold all the memories you share with one you love. But it sounds like it will work. <3.
Judith, you are so right. A little box will never hold all the precious memories we carry in our heart. However, for some, that physical reminder is so important. It may just help them remember on a day when the remembering is hard.
Gina
This really hit home today– I attended the viewing of the mother of one of my neighbors. In talking to her and her sisters I could see the love they shared with their Mom. Memories of parents gone are so precious, especially at this time of year. And I know what your friend means; all my older relatives are gone too and I miss the times of reminiscences we had. But thanks to God, I will see them again!
Sue, it is a comfort to know that, in Christ, we will see our loved ones again. Whether we have a little box on the mantle or not, no one can take our sweet memories away from us.
Gina
Thank you so much for the story of the “box”. It was what I needed today. I will keep that in mind for the next time I need it.
Thank you too for writing each day because I look forward to reading them.
Michele, I am delighted that the story of the little box blessed you. I pray that this may be something we can do for someone who is grieving. Perhaps a gift of the little box will help them as their mind is flooded with memories. Thank you for telling me that you look forward to the Whispers each day. That blesses my heart.
Gina