Making Offers On Memories

I am by no means a garage sale junky, but on a beautiful day when the sun is shining, and the birds are chirping, I enjoy loading the boys in the back of the old truck and driving around with Eva looking at what people are selling. You can find some really neat things on occasion.

I remember one day before Eva was born. My folks were in town, and we decided to peruse around and see what we found. There was one house that was lined with cars, so we figured it was a good place to stop. The lady who owned the house was selling everything in her husband’s shop. It was a gold mine for men. My dad was lost in a sea of tools, and my mom and I were looking around at some home decor items when I ran across a shelf that held souvenir spoons. I collected souvenir spoons and needed a shelf to hold them. My mother and grandmother both collected them as well, so it was only natural that I would collect them. I asked the lady how much for the shelf, and she told me. I paid her for it and was about to leave when I realized the shelf still had her spoons attached. I told her I would remove them so she could keep them. It was then that she looked at me and said, “No. I do not need them. Those are past memories. My husband and I had a wonderful life together. He died last year, and I am just cleaning out his old shop and all of our stuff that I no longer need.” I just stared at her. I didn’t know what to say. My mind flooded with something my dad had told me a while back, as we were leaving a different garage sale. He said, “We do not realize that we are making offers on memories.”

A couple of days later, I was cleaning the shelf and removing all the spoons. When I finished putting them in a bag, I took them to the garage and opened the  trashcan to throw them away. After all, they weren’t my memories. They held no significant value to me, but in that moment, I froze. I couldn’t do it. I looked back down at the bag, and this time I took notice. On each spoon  was written a different location or destination. There were more cities and states than I could count. My eyes got a little glossy. These were all of her spoons that she had collected over her lifetime, and I was about to toss them away as if they were meaningless. The thought of the lives lived behind these souvenir spoons stopped me in my tracks. I went back inside and found my car keys. I knew right where she lived, so I headed towards her house. I parked my car out in front and walked up to her door. I knocked. She answered. I explained who I was and why I was there. In more words, than I can remember, I told her garage sales are full of dusty junk and old worn-out clothes, but some things just don’t belong. These spoons were one of them.  I told her I was about to throw them away, but I just couldn’t do it. I had to return them. These were her memories. The spoons may be made of a cheap silver-plated metal, but a life is made by precious moments stacked, “one by one.” Memories may be black and white, but life is lived in color.

As I left that day, I felt a little funny making a big deal over some spoons, but were they really just some spoons? Each one was attached to a special place in time. I will never know what she did with them after I left. She said she was going to get a shadow box to put them in.  I hope she did. I hope she placed it somewhere she passes by often when walking through her house, and maybe, on occasion, she will remember a young lady who was unwilling to make offers on memories.

 “I thank my God in all my remembrance of you, always in every prayer of mine for you all, making prayer with joy, because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now.” Philippians 1:3-5

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