When Life is Loud

It’s unusual for me to be home alone. I expected it to be quieter. My wife is working a three-day ministry event. My daughter is in Boston for the weekend, and my other two kids have married. It’s just me and the dogs. Though it’s anything but silent.

Our property screams transition.

A huge oak fell about ten days ago and essentially destroyed our barn. Now, all the family-of-five memories we could stuff into a two story 1700sq ft space over the last 23+ years are in the yard or dangling from the second floor.

Then there’s our house, which held 23+ years of life before we recently vacated a parsonage and church office. Since we’ll soon move into a new house and we’re building a new office, why even unpack the boxes?

The boxes. They’re everywhere.

My daughter had a beautiful outdoor wedding in November. Each time I raised an eyebrow at the items being purchased, my wife assured me that she could resell them right after the wedding. It’s been a great lesson in the remarkable difference between could and would. We have stacks of boxes of wedding decorations. Now she finds no reason to sell them when we may soon need them for our other daughter’s wedding. I get it. Though she’s not even engaged.

There’s another explanation. My wife’s mom died exactly a week after our daughter’s wedding. She’s heartbroken, grieving while trying to assimilate her love for her mom with the indelible memories and the fact that she will never hear her mom’s voice again in this life. As she and her siblings settle the estate and divide her mom’s possessions, those memories are making their way into our living room and home office. I just looked over at the urn between typing sentences. While that may seem unusual, there will always be a place in my home for my wife’s most tender memories. And the urn will soon find its home in my mother-in-law’s beloved Texas.

My grandmother recently moved into an assisted living home. It’s weird, but I wanted nothing from her home. My kids each wanted a few sentimental treasures, which have somehow ended up at my house. After my parents laid siege, I found nothing worthy of the life she so lovingly gave me. I struggle with dividing property of someone I so dearly love while she’s living just a few miles away. Yet, now my kids’ treasures sit just a few feet from me.

Finally, my parents recently decided to rid themselves of the remaining toys, sports equipment, and childhood memories that they kept from not only my childhood, but also those of my children. It’s been a few months, and I haven’t opened a single box.

It looks like a warehouse. Yet, it feels different. It’s louder.

As a child, I learned to associate stuff with memories. Gifts often expressed unspoken apologies. The very things my friends coveted represented memories I’d rather not have. The nicer the gift, the worse the memory that preceded it. The beautiful stuff was a brilliant camouflage. No doubt, that forever shaped my relationship with stuff.

I’m still sentimental about a few things. But by and large, I could walk away from all this stuff with my loved ones and a few personal items and never look back. Though I know that will never actually happen.

Ironically, my wife learned to associate stuff with good memories. Like many moms, she’s kept every paint dipped handprint, school photo & report card, doll house, and Lego set. She treasures the items that trigger memories of the best moments in life.

So, here I sit, amidst the books, guns, toys, urn, photo albums, children’s paintings, extra coffee maker, canned goods, shoes, wrestling medals, baseball bats, wall hangings, canoe, broken wheelbarrows and miscellaneous personal items. It’s just stuff. Yet, most of it has a story to tell. It’s like spending a weekend with a house full of teenage girls, each talking at the same time, and never a quiet moment or unoccupied room. It’s the best and worst of life swirling around our house like a continuous indoor memory laden tornado.

But God. He brings peace when life overwhelms. When one’s past crashes into one’s present and one’s future seems to be under the pile, when memories you’d rather forget are entangled within the very best of your life, when your past bricks get stacked on your porcelain future, when the echoes of your past drown out the songs of today – God. He restores. He renews. He refocuses. He rebuilds. He will always be the hero of my story.

I’m so thankful that I don’t have to get my house in order before God walks in. He’s not a guest. He lives with and in me, whatever my circumstances – the ones I made for myself and the ones someone else dumped in my driveway. I simply turn to Him amid the chaos. He silences the noise. His whisper centers me and reminds me of what’s important. He encourages and empowers me to change what I can and thrive where I am. That’s my God. Do you know Him?