The furniture is in place. Clothes are in the closet. Cupboards are filling with the merchandise of daily life in the 21st century. Lotions and potions, tissues and sprays. So with our last ounces of strength, Mhairi and I tackled the mountain of family photos from through the 90 years of a life well lived.
We estimated and judged, sometimes measured, usually went by our estimations, and hammered in the nails and hooks and hung up the smiling, familiar faces of days gone by. Happy faces, usually happy times. Though in one photo of me as a child there is still visible a trace of a tear in an eye. In another photo of my sister there is a sadness that is visible. A sadness for the loss of a desperately desired dream. There are pictures stretching back through time, of people young who are young no more, but whose preciousness remains.
We nicknamed it the hall, or corridor, of love. Loves which don't die. Which linger on and grow. Which warm the heart and recall memories, laughter, joy.
With God's help, we have done it. We have managed to move a lifetime of stuff from one place to another, get it in order and now, hopefully, enable life to continue here in a safer environment.
We have done what we could, motivated by love and the best intentions. The great unknown stretches ahead but we focus on God, and step out, trusting in his never failing love. Our hope is in him and that enables us to continue to live with grace and purpose.
We are surrounded by a cloud of witnesses spurring us on. Those who are out of sight and those who are still with us, praying, visiting, bringing tomatoes from their garden and laundry soap parcels to make the job easier.
God is good. His face is familiar in the faces of those all around us. So thankful.
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