I just can’t do it.

Despite the fact that it no longer works and is missing its glass “face,” I just can’t seem to throw away the clock that’s been sitting on my dresser for years. This has everything to do with the college friend who gave it to me. Kind, intelligent, encouraging—he was the younger sibling I never had. I enjoyed listening to my friend—let’s call him Joseph—talk and hoped my responses were helpful. Looking back, I wonder why he let me into his life when he traveled in trendier circles than I did. I think it was because he valued people who were committed to their spiritual lives, who were serious about pursuing a genuine and substantial relationship with God. He did the same, but never came off as heavy handed or self-righteous. He just was, and that gave other people room to do the same: just be who they were before God and each other.

I haven’t tried to look him up on the internet. My reasons are two-fold: first, his full name is so common that I think the pool of matches would be too large to sift through; second, I would feel awkward stepping into his landscape after so many years. I’m a big believer in letting good things from the past remain pristine. I would not want to impose myself on someone who may not remember me. I’m grateful for the time I spent with him and want to leave it that way. I’m hoping that by writing a bit about Joseph, I may be able to finally let the clock go—because the object has been replaced by something far sturdier: memories captured by words that I can return to whenever I need reminding of one of the many gifts God has given me through people throughout my whole life.

What else do I have trouble throwing out? There is an orchid in my bedroom which is 99% dead. I’m holding onto it because it was given to me at the baby shower my husband’s office threw us when I learned that I was pregnant. It’s a living thing (if only just barely), and certain death seems too harsh an end for it after 13 years. I keep hoping that it will somehow regenerate, although I am taking no steps to encourage it to do so. Maybe I could reconcile myself to relinquishing it if I tried my best to revive it and it became clear that it was futile. I just haven’t made the effort. I have just wished and held on. Not very good tactics for turning away from one’s current trajectory.

One more thing—I have never, as far as I can recall, thrown out any of my journals. On the surface, this choice seems logical. Those handwritten tomes capture my struggles and God’s faithfulness to me. They also reflect my younger self back to me and might prove helpful in showing me how far I have come when I feel discouraged. However, they are scattered about my office and I have yet to go to them for a faith-booster. They just remain, these records of who I was and what I experienced. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want anyone else reading them as I’ve never been one to edit myself in my private writings. Tossing these journals would be the only way to make absolutely sure that they remain just that—private.

Where do we put the stuff that holds meaning for us? Do we need a physical object in our hands or are words enough? Why do some of us hold more tightly to sentimental objects than others do? What determines how “lightly” or “heavily” we travel as we are passing through upon the planet? Self-help resources on how to slim down our inventory of stuff abound. It seems many people want to become unencumbered by their possessions but find it difficult—if not impossible—to do so. They may go so far as to hire a professional organizer, but when the moment of truth comes, they resist all of that person’s efforts to help them. Why do we tune into shows that show people trying—and failing—to overcome their hoarding habits? What is the fascination? What part of ourselves do we see in them: the hoarder who has dug in their feet and refuses to move forward, despite their unhealthy or even dangerous lifestyle?

Recently my husband went to a memorial service for the father of one of his college friends. He told me that many family members spoke of their beloved dad or grandad. It got me thinking about how we need services such as these to preserve the person we have lost, so that we can hold onto the departed together. It’s as if to say, “That person is still with us. We all heard the stories and remembrances that day. We all bore witness to the deep impression they made on our lives. They are never far from us as long as we keep telling each other our stories about the one who has died.”

I’m not usually one to think about heaven, despite the fact that I am a Christian and believe it is a place to which I am headed. A place of profound joy, comfort, and peace, all undeserved and yet supplied without reservation. It’s hard for me to imagine coming face-to-face with God. It’s not an entirely comfortable prospect when I consider the fact that all of who I am will be brought before Him for judgment. Yes, Jesus will advocate for me as He did on the cross, and I am sure that I will receive a warm welcome for this reason. But a nagging sliver of doubt still remains that all will be forgiven. That “all” is just too great an amount of trespass to wrap my head around. My dearest friends in the faith tell me there will be no surprise endings, no tricks that consign me to an eternity of suffering. I take refuge in their confidence when I find it difficult to come up with sufficient faith on my own.

What I can appreciate about heaven, without reservation, is the idea—the reality—that it is the place where I get to “keep” all that mattered to me most on this side of existence. Forget the dresser tops and office shelves that hold my stuff. Heaven holds my people, the ones who have gone on before me whom I had choice but to let go of when their time came. I can say that if not for heaven, I would not have been able to bear the loss of my maternal grandparents. It didn’t matter that they were old when they passed, I just wasn’t ready to go it alone without them. When my grandfather died, I remember thinking: I won’t be able to go through this again. He was the father I had never had and was also the first among my elder relatives to go. But go through it again I did, when I lost my grandmother. By that point I was almost numb from the pain and trying to pull away from it. That pulling away still feels like a betrayal on my part, and again, I hope I am forgiven for this trespass along with all the others.

This past year I experienced a different need for heaven’s safekeeping than ever before. My son goes to horse therapy several times a week for his autism. I grew particularly attached to one of the older therapy horses there, named Rocky. Back when we’d begun going, I was terrified of these large, 1,200 lb. animals. They all had such unique personalities, likes, and dislikes, and they commanded respect because of their size.

Rocky’s gentle ways taught me how to not be afraid of horses. He took carrots and apples out of my hand with such softness. He stood patiently by me whenever I was near. He even nosed me playfully on my back as if to say, “I’m here and I want you to receive some horse-affection.”

Rocky developed cancer and had to be put down. It happened almost overnight and then he just wasn’t there. This gentle giant, who knew his job was to help heal victims of trauma (myself included), was gone. The pain of his loss was as sharp as it was sudden. I found myself thinking: well who’s going to heal me now? With grim clarity, I understood why people struggle so hard with losing their pets. Rocky was gone, and I had to cope. I’m still coping whenever we go to the farm and I note his absence. But I have found that gratitude for the time I had with him, however short, helps soothe the wound left behind. That, and the sure expectation of seeing Rocky again when I get to heaven. The first time I visited his grave on the farm I felt such an absence, like Rocky had moved on and was no longer there, but somewhere else infinitely better.
What are you holding onto that is hard to let go of? Why do you think this is so? Where do you store your precious keepsakes, and do you ever feel you should perhaps part ways with any of them? Most importantly, where do you keep your people? Do you draw comfort from the belief that they are somewhere, well and whole, waiting for you? And how much does this belief affect your life?

I want to thank you for reading about what is precious to me and why. Writing this has been a healing experience for me. And who knows, if I discover a repair shop and end up getting my clock fixed, I’ll let you know.

Jesus said of Mary, a disciple who was sitting at his feet listening, “Mary has chosen the good part which shall not be taken away from her” (Luke 10:42). I pray the same for you. That you choose well where you put your affections and that you always get to keep the treasures God gives you. May there always be others around you with whom to share your experience of loving another with your whole heart, even when it promises the risk of pain when loss comes.

Still love. It’s still worth it.

Amen.