What could be more perfect than freshly fallen snow on Christmas morning? The white flakes swirl and stir up warm and giddy feelings of childhood. As adults our great hope is that our children get to experience that same joy. We know that shiny new toys will eventually become old and worn. Life takes its toll, not just on those things, but on us too. As we get older, experiences and trials change us. They leave unseen marks like the scratches on your old bike or that scar on your knee from when you crashed it. The scars add a special value to these things as they usually come with a story and an important lesson. 

As a runner I’ve gotten a few scrapes and scars in my day. These injuries can be quite useful. They teach you when to rest and when to push yourself. They give you an opportunity to prove your strength; sometimes surprising others and many times surprising yourself. Most importantly, they make you realize that no matter how strong you think you are, there will always be times when you need help from others. Consider yourself blessed if you’ve ever fallen so hard that you had to phone a friend to pick you up from the side of the road. 

The following is a story that began months ago. It started as a way of simply reminiscing about my dad and the old stuff in his garage. When I began looking at those things more intently, the story changed. It developed into a story about what we do with the adversities and encouragement that life offers us. Life’s pains and pleasures often work together. A lot of times, loss actually uncovers and strengthens our connections to others and that is one of life’s greatest joys.

We all know people that hate to throw things away. Not hoarders, just people who store stuff in the garage or attic… in case they might have a use for it some day. My dad was one of those. He kept a lot of his own old stuff and also “took things off of people’s hands.” He had a penchant for re-purposing garage sale purchases. And by re-purposing, I mean offering it up to anyone- mostly family members- who might need it. His garage is still a cluttered hodge-podge of outdated furniture, dusty ceramic mugs, and faintly creepy carnival stuffies. Along with a large assortment of tools and a couple of ratty old hats, it stands as a museum of all things ‘Dad’. 

This is an anecdote I often tell with a mixture of humor and wistfulness. Now, as I scan the garage, a bit overwhelmed by the task of sorting through all of this junk; I realize that there’s more to it than that. Most of these things made their way into our garage because of his thoughtfulness and his desire to provide for others. And maybe for another reason too. At 5′ 6″ ish with a small build, he often had to prove himself to be considered for the more physical jobs he wanted as a teenager. He was the football team’s water boy in high school because the coach thought he was too small to play. From this he learned to recognize the value of things that others overlook.

There’s this pink and white tricycle that he rescued from a neighbor’s yard sale. It has white tires, a basket on the front, and it’s decorated with cheerful watercolor flowers and cupcakes. It’s a little worn out, but mostly just outgrown. He figured it was perfect for my 2 year old niece to use when my brother and his family visit from Texas. Beside it, there’s a black and red bike for my nephew to use. In the midst of the clutter, I didn’t pay much attention to the bikes. Until my brother was home for the funeral and I showed him around the garage. 

“The funny thing is, most of this isn’t even our stuff. A garage full of strangers’ memories.”

 I gave an empty chuckle and dropped my arms to my sides. My brother walked towards the trike and took hold of the pink handlebar. Understanding what it was for; he pinched his lips tight, looked up, and took a slow breath in. It was something he did to hold back tears. It was one of those moments in grief that felt heavy and light at the same time. I’d had one of those moments the night before when my brother’s family first arrived from Texas. 

Waiting for their car to pull in is usually such a joy filled moment. But this time I was thrown by a version of grief that was sharp and suffocating. As their SUV rolled in so did the cold realization of what was really lost; the future memories that would never be shared. The sharpness softened a bit as I carried my nephew up the porch steps. Sleepy from a long drive, he let his head take respite on my shoulder. I relish these rare moments. As an energetic 6 year old, he’d normally be impatiently scuttling up the steps. Before I made it to the door, his little arms gave me a comforting squeeze. Sweet boy! He’d never done that before. Did he do it because he knows I am sad or because he is; maybe both? I’m still not sure of this answer, but it felt like an act of pure love. It made me realize that he had a better understanding of things than I thought. In a way, it was a blessing that he got to know his Papa Cecil enough to miss him.

All I know of my own grandfather came from the obituary that I Googled. I had the impression that my dad’s memories of him were not good so I never asked. Even in the collection of stories he wrote about his childhood, his father is hardly mentioned. He does, however, describe his grandparents as very loving. He writes that his grandfather was more of a father figure. His grandparents were the ones who took care of him when he had scarlet fever. His grandmother always made sure he had something to eat and his grandfather would walk 2 miles to the store just to buy him his favorite cookies. 

Those few words help me to learn something very important about two people I never met. I was beginning to see a clearer picture. That stuff in the garage- they’re Dad’s version of the 2 mile cookies. He understood the value of thoughtfulness even if he’d have no idea how his would impact us. He may never get to see his grand kids enjoy their bikes, but the sentiment behind the deed will leave a lasting impression.

Life gives each of us a share of gifts and a share of hardships. We should be grateful for all of it. We have so much to learn from it. It’s easy to get so wrapped up in what happens to us that we get distracted from our true purpose of service. It’s not what we get out of life it’s what we pour into it. It’s not what we inherit but what we pass on. This is something I have to keep reminding myself. I certainly don’t have it all worked out. But maybe, If we’re doing life right; our effect on others will be so strong that the connection itself becomes its own entity. Connection is one of the most beautiful parts of life; it’s something that doesn’t die. It lives on in the form of kindness and goodness and the memories and influences we leave with the ones we love. Whatever you unwrap this Christmas, remember to consider the love with which it was wrapped.  And never discount the value of those old things with the dents and scars.