Faith Works 9-26-20

Faith Works 9-26-20

Jeff Gill

 

Not a column for the squeamish

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Since my father's death and the family decisions we've had to make in the last six months, I've had quite a few inquiries come in by email and social media asking "what have you learned?"

 

In the process of dealing with a death, a relocation for my mother, and the myriad adjustments of selling a long-standing family home, I have to admit I think I've learned a few things. Some of it I may need to rest and reflect on a little while longer, but there are some simple practical lessons that are already baked through and ready to serve up.

 

One big one, and frankly the aspect of this that is what people have been asking me about the most, is your stuff. Yes, you. Your stuff.

 

Oh, not my stuff, you say. As a matter of fact, I don't have stuff. I have antiques and keepsakes and memorabilia and valued possessions, but I don't have "stuff," okay?

 

(This is where I put the content warning. If you are unbearably sensitive about your possessions, or have had a recent loss yourself and are struggling with their belongings, you may not want to read the rest of this. It won't be fun to read, and isn't a delight to say on my part either.)

 

Folks, everything you have in your house, all those antiques and keepsakes and memorabilia and valued possessions, is . . . okay, let's start with the basic theological simple fact: you can't take it with you, there's nothing we own that is forever, and we are at best stewards for a time of whatever that china or silver or furniture is. If it's really of any value in an earthly sense, then it probably existed before you were born, and will perhaps be around after you are gone, so we are simply caretakers, that's all.

 

Except it likely isn't as valuable as you think it is. Sorry, but while I'm not an appraiser or antiques expert, the overwhelming majority of stuff that people think is valuable is just stuff. Beanie Baby collections, much loved dining room tables, framed items on the wall that have been there long enough to discolor the wall behind it: not as valuable as you think it is.

 

Does our stuff have value? Yes, but it's the value we put on those objects, and when we die, my friends, that value dies with us. Perhaps there are some others somewhere who share those values, so a box of genealogy files which has a street value of ZERO may have a lasting value to another family member, where that china cabinet or collectible set of china figures in it is probably of a measurable value to a person who shares your tastes . . . but how much time and money (and they are two sides of a single coin) will it take to find that person? Putting it in a storage unit until you can find that person who shares your sense of value over some stuff is almost invariably a bad investment, unless you own the locker rental contract.

 

And – this is the really hard part, friends – most of your stuff is going to be gone through after your death by people who are pressed for time, whose backs are tired, who have been lifting things out of drawers and hauling stuff off of the backs of shelves and piling it all on tables and sofas, and they will be making myriad fast decisions, perhaps with tears in their eyes, but the knowledge of the end of the month, the closing at the end of the week, or the new tenant coming tomorrow pressing them to make hard decisions quickly. Not the decisions you would make, nor the priorities you would think they might, because by the time they get to the stuff they'd really like to stop and think about, the light is fading, the truck is waiting ('it's a rental, dear, we have to have it back by 8 am"), and all the time they spent on the closets and cabinets means the drawer of treasures is now a rushed dumpout of choices for what fit into the last few corners of bins not already filled, "and I can't get any more in my car, sorry."

 

So if you still have the eyes to see and the time to spend and the energy to devote to it, if you have objects or items you want to pass along securely to the next generation, you have to do it now. Yourself. I'll say more about this next week.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's been involved in cleaning out a remarkable number of closets in three locations in the last six months. Tell him what gets you to sift and sort at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.