Memorial Pieces of My Home

I have four pairs of jeans hanging in my closet that are far too big. I wore them during my first pregnancy, before I had to finally give them up and buy some actual maternity jeans. I’ve held onto them, expecting another pregnancy. They still lay unwrinkled and perhaps a bit dusty on the hangers.

Each night I swallow a large prenatal vitamin that sometimes hits my gag reflex. Just to make sure I have all the proper vitamins in case another baby is able to stay.

I have a spare bedroom painted tangerine with a newly renovated bureau and an empty crib in the corner. Each roll of paint was a tug-of-war in my heart between trust and doubt. 

I have an old wooden highchair in the basement waiting to be refinished, but I keep putting it off. Honestly, I don’t need another memorial piece to remind me of what I may never have again.

Each of these pieces pricks at my heart, like a pin needle. They used to whack me like a mallet, but with time their blow has softened to an acute poke. They remind me of my first—and still ongoing—season of grief. They remind me of the flickers between faith and unbelief that I bounced between in those early weeks of lament.

But in my office I have a white frame sitting on my bookshelf with mountains and rivers inside drawn with words of the psalms. It reminds me of the my Heavenly Father’s kindness seen in a friend who had it delivered to my doorstep after our first miscarriage.

In my back porch there’s a large glass baking dish. It sat on the dryer for months waiting to be carried out the door and brought back to its owner. First it was forgotten, then we couldn’t leave the house. It first arrived in the arms of a friend nestled in oven mittens because the meal was still hot. The empty dish reminds me of the glimpse of Christ’s love I saw through his church during our second miscarriage.

I wear a gold chain with two tiny seeds encapsulated in the pendant. It’s a reminder of two lives I carried shortly in my womb and five long-distant friends who love me as a sister.

When I hold my husband’s calloused hand, I’m reminded of the strong grip he held me with as I cried tears upon tears. I’m reminded that he has withstood much pain with me and has never faltered in his love and care.

I have memorials in my home. I have pieces that provoke feelings, memories, and thoughts. For each one that brings grief, I have another that gives me a glimpse at eternity. But even these memorials are temporary. Necklaces break, borrowed dishes eventually get returned, pictures fade, and someday my husband will pass away as well. Each of these memorials flickers with beauty, goodness, and truth. But I also need something that doesn’t tarnish. Something everlasting. I need to treasure God’s Word in my heart. Perhaps in physical ways that I can see and tangible ways I can touch. 

There is something about holding my Bible each morning, feeling the pages and seeing the curves of the words, that helps it stay in my mind. There’s something about flitting through my house dusting and cleaning while playing the Word in the background—suddenly places in my house begin to remind me of the passages I’ve heard. Glimpsing at notecards with verses propped throughout my home starts to solidify them in my mind. Rewriting a passage by hand over and over carves the words into my heart. Singing Scripture puts it to melody that can be repeated with ease. Hearing the Bible preached gives it convicting power in my heart. Explaining God’s Word to another ingrains the passage in my heart.

The Word inhales and exhales life. With the Spirit, it resurrects dead hearts. It enlightens hearts darkened with grief. We need this Word inlaid on our minds and souls to renew our faith and encourage the faith of another. We can’t rely on our own words or the words of another for long. 

My memorial pieces scattered over my house—both the grievous and the joyous—may spur an emotion in me. But eventually I may grow numb or they will disintegrate. I need lasting, living words. I need to tuck these Words away in my heart that the Spirit may bring them to mind. I need to hear the Word preached, fellowship with brothers and sisters in Christ so they can speak it over me, see it magnified in the sacraments. 

My memorials take up room in my heart, even when they prick it. But they will never change it like Scripture does. And that’s where I need to set my mind.