My mother loved a sweet old antique hymn; one that reminds me why I couldn鈥檛 get into a buying mood during my favourite kind of shopping trip awhile back.
Friends and I spent a full day poking about the shops in the old village of Merickville, Ontario. Every crack in its gadzillion 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. 鈥淗eaviest menus anywhere,鈥� 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鈥檛 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鈥檛 find my buying bones. My mother had died less than three weeks earlier. I鈥檇 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 鈥渟piderwebs鈥� 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鈥檇 bring: cozy reading time with the grandbeans.
At lunch, my quiche slipped down smoothly. So did the spinach salad and cr猫me brule. But while sitting beside a warm fire, chatting about nothing and everything, my thoughts wandered. I鈥檓 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鈥檚 in God鈥檚 hands now, and I talk to Jesus lots about her. So in a sense, while popping in and out of Merickville鈥檚 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: 鈥淭urn 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.鈥�
Mom knew that well. From heaven, she still reminds me.
