My mother loved a sweet old antique hymn; one that reminds me why I couldn’t get into a buying mood during my favourite kind of shopping trip awhile back.
Friends and I spent the day poking about the shops in the old village of Merickville, Ontario. Every crack in its gazillion bricks oozes Victorian charm. Antique and craft shops, artsy boutiques and repurposed century-or-more-old homes line its streets.
We ate lunch at one of those brick charmers. Our waitress brought a platter full of thick antique books to our table and passed them around, one apiece. When we opened them, we found the menu tucked neatly inside. “Heaviest menus anywhere,” she complained good-naturedly, in response to our surprised comments.
But after an entire day of shopping, I came away with only two mystery books, one Hardy Boys and one Trixie Belden. I plucked them off a shelf in an antique shop crammed with dust, dishes and forgotten relics. Other than that, my brain couldn’t bend around buying stuff that day; quite remarkable for someone who appreciates unique items sold in little shops in charming towns.
Not until later did I realize why I couldn’t find my buying bones. My mother had died less than three weeks earlier. I’d been reminded afresh that in the light of eternity, the things we hold in our hands (no matter how exquisite) have less value than spiderwebs.
I handled a few “spiderwebs” in Merickville. Flipped over their price tags, admired their workmanship, even took photos. But in the end I put them back on their shelves and left them behind. I bought the books for what I knew they’d bring: cozy reading time with the grandbeans.
At lunch, my quiche slipped down smoothly. So did the spinach salad and crème brule. But while sitting beside a warm fire, chatting about nothing and everything, my thoughts wandered. I’m not sure if I was quiet, but deep inside, I felt quiet.
Invisible to others, the shadow of death lingers long over those bereaved. I felt grateful no one tried to yank me out of my reflective mode. Instead they gave me the gift of presence, asking nothing but my company; a present more precious than any boutique item.
Thoughts of Mom never wandered far from my mind then or since. She’s in God’s hands now, and I talk to Jesus lots about her. So in a sense, while popping in and out of Merickville’s stores, I had Jesus on my mind as much as my mother. I pictured her sweet face and his, in earnest conversation. About what? Heaven only knows.
That antique hymn reminded me why I had no appetite for buying on that shopping trip. It goes like this: “Turn your eyes upon Jesus. Look full in his wonderful face. And the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of his glory and grace.”
Mom knew that well. From heaven, she still reminds me.