You know how it is.  I’m crazy about clutter clean-up if you’ve read earlier posts.  There is nothing like an organized home that is preparing for today and the future.  Cleaning up is better than all the caffeine in the world – it is so energizing.  So down came the garage attic and there it was all over the garage floor and the driveway.  My son and I got the system going.  One pile for the broken items to be disposed of.  Another pile of give-away items.  Another pile of things to keep and box correctly.  And finally a repair pile.  Hours later we had the boxed items finished when my husband came out to evaluate what was left to do. 

On the throw away pile I had put a thing-a-ma-bob.  I had no idea what it was, I only know that it had been around for a longggggg time, and in probably fifteen years we have never used this thingy.    So I took this doo-jigger and put it in the discard pile because we have never used it for whatever it is to be used for.  It had been taking up space and I was tired of moving it around for too many years.

On the “keep” pile was James’ bowling ball.  His personalized ball, gloves, shoes, and case … a wonderful memory from when he bowled in a league when we were engaged.  Every Friday night we would go and I would watch him bowl on the pastor’s team against others in the church league.  This was the pastor that married us.  We didn’t even start until 10:00 every Friday night and we had a ball (pun intended) with all those people.  Perhaps I could take this ball and make it into a doorstop for our home with a little playdo on the bottom to keep it from rolling.  Perhaps I could take it and balance it on an iron stand and pontificate about spheres in our home schooling.  Perhaps we could put silk flowers into the finger holes and put it in a corner.  Or maybe we could make it into a cartoon character by attaching the gloves and shoes to it at the proper places and use it as a model for art class.   The possibilities were endless.

My husband, surveying the piles, said, “Keep the thing-a-ma-jig and throw out the bowling ball.”

Me:  “You are joking, right?”

My man:  “No.  I will not be bowling again.  But that doo-hickey is worth a little bit and I might use it some day.”

Me:  “You are really joking, right?”

My man:  “No, I’m not.  I want to keep that thingy and throw the ball out.

Me:  “But the ball has history.  This what-cha-ma-hoozy we have never used and it just keeps getting dusty and dirty.  Do you know how many times I have cleaned out the garage and moved this thing around?”

My man:  “I might use it in the future and they cost a little bit.”

And then he left and I stood there looking at the glossy beautiful rich brown swirled ball and this other doo-dad that was dusty, dirty, and definitely not historically useful. 

What a struggle.  And then that little voice inside me said, “Obey him.”

I sure did not want to, but I did.  The thing-a-linga-minga was placed back in the garage, saved for some unknown task.  Perhaps it will dock a space shuttle in our back yard the next time the shuttle stops by to thrill my children who are fans of aeronautical endeavours.  Perhaps it will harbor mice who have lost their homes due to the recession.  Perhaps it will hold the manuals to lawnmowers that have not been invented yet, you know, the kinds that women hope are invented to actually put a pattern on a lawn by using cut-outs of some sort in the blade assembly.  Or perhaps it will serve as a garbage bag dispenser because this giz-mo-a-bob missed its opportunity to personally experience bulk trash pick-up.

Garbage day came.  The bulk garbage day.  We had trash items and bags and boxes that lined the road thirty feet long and three feet deep.  When the truck arrived, I stared out the window and watched the men take parts of my life and dispose of them in the truck.  Oh, that was hard to watch.  The bowling ball case was in the front and the guys took a look inside the bag and then proceeded to overstep it in order to grab items in the back of the trash pile.  I thought perhaps the weighty ball had to go last when the squishy thing comes down and compacts all of my belongings into a pancake.  The guys kept stepping over the ball and when everything else was in the truck, they hit the button and down came the squishy pancake smasher. 

Then they put the whole bowling bag, ball, gloves and shoes in the cab of the trunk, thrilled to have found a treasure in my garbage.  I was thrilled to see them thrilled.  Someone will have a ball with a 28 year old bowling ball.

A couple of things I learned from this ball and thing-a-ma-jig scenario.

First, I never know what will happen when I obey.  Sometimes God puts a sweet ending to these little obediences, stuff that I could never even dream of.

Second, I never know when my children are watching and what they are learning.  My son had witnessed my struggle to obey during the clutter clean-up.  He also said to me as a trash-collecting stranger took my treasured bowling ball to be his own,  “You know, Mom, being a trash man wouldn’t be such a bad career.  Just think of all the dumpster diving finds they get!”

And third, there is this what-cha-ma-call-it in my garage that has a future in my life.  I can’t wait to see what Providence does with it.

I found this poem in my attic.  I wrote this to James before we were married and it amazingly has come true.   Sometimes it is hard to be in the autumn years of our lives and we wish for the spring season of our lives when we were young.  At the same time, autumn love holds things that early love knows nothing about.  It’s worth the time to live it out.

The Attic

Today up in my attic I found a treasure rare,

A little trunk that years ago I had packed with care,

And as my thoughts turned backwards within the hands of time

I smiled at all the years that had been yours and also mine. 

I found a book of poems from months of early love -

That springtime when you came to me, sent from up above,

And letters from a summer on one side were neatly laid -

Penned promises that from my side you would never stray.

Again I gently touched a page announcing wedding bliss

And pictures of our wedding day I surely did not miss.

The memories of those first few years warmly filled the air

As moments of our life weaved together in special care.

Though more to come I waited for another day to see

The things that over many years you had given me.

I closed the lid, glancing up, eyes fell upon your face,

I did not see you watching in my reminiscing haste.

Your smile told me what words could not, eyes filled with tears,

How wonderful it’s been to be your wife for all of these years.

The past few days have been rather unusual.  We downloaded both attics into the garage and our kitchen and went through everything.  This generated a rather large pile for bulk trash pickup and a good size give-away pile.   On one hand it was a relief, on the other hand it was bittersweet as James and I move into a new season of life and discard items that were needed in former years.  After four days of sorting and packing, I finally snuggled up with little people on the sofa and opened my small memory box.   There is a stack of photographs from my childhood, my school report cards, playbills and concert programs from many extra-curricular activities, the silk bouquet I carried to the marriage alter, love letters from James, the infamous toilet paper roll letter he wrote to me, diplomas and awards, and other little tidbits from my life. 

The stack of photographs were of great interest to my little ones.  I found this one of myself a sort of prophecy.  At the age of two, I was playing the piano and reading a Bible.   I give thanks to my father for this, who provided 19 years of piano lessons for me and 27 years of being in the Word together.  I also wonder that I married a music man who loves his Bible.

Daddy listened to my piano lesson in the evenings after supper.   Every Monday night he took a long drive into Harrisburg so that his girls could take lessons from Annie Marie DeVerter.  She was elderly, eccentric, and from a good lineage of European artists.  I don’t know how she had all of us playing intermediate sonatinas in third grade.  While each of us took a turn at the keyboard, the others went with Daddy to the nearby capitol building.  In the summertime we hand fed the squirrels and pigeons.  In the winter we watched the bats circle the dome of the capitol building or we walked into the retail district and window shopped the department stores.  I remember the fantastic window displays at Christmas time and this is why I loved when years later James would take me into New York City to see the displays at Macy’s.  When Annie Marie retired my father found a petite elderly lady who had graduated from Peabody Conservatory to teach me in my high school years.  She was also an organist at the Lutheran Church and extremely talented.  One of the things I loved about her is that she always had a steaming cup of tea in her hand and blinked in the most extraordinary way.  She was loving to me and was delighted when I went on to major in music in college.   Now that I have taught the piano for thirty years, I can accurately say that giving the gift of music to someone else is just as good as having it yourself.

My first grade “Little Bo Peep” costume that won the Halloween contest.  The staff was painted pink to match my dress and was covered in all kinds of pretty bells that made tinny little sounds.  I remember the petticoat swishing and the headpiece and mask being too hot.  I wonder if I ever found the sheep.    My mother was such a great mom and put so much detail into the events of our lives.

There have been so many blessings in my life that I will never be able to rejoice enough over what God has done for me.