The Estate Sale

The estate sign caught my eye on the way to my parents' house.  I knew I'd just have to return the next morning.  Amelia has flea market booths to keep full and I have fall photography props just waiting to be purchased.

But, to be honest, the word estate sale always leaves me a bit nervous.

If it is an estate sale, that usually means the occupants of the home have died.  You probably know by now I don't get along well with death.

Darn that curse.

Jennifer, my sis in law, and I found ourselves in the garage first.  Huge signs said that today everything was half price!  Vintage 1962 Christmas wrapping paper made us giddy with delight.  An old black plaid vintage suitcase popped into my hands, refusing to be put down.  Old books were piled everywhere.  Helter Skelter, anyone?

We entered the house, greeted with a beautiful oak piano.  We stepped into the living room to still see the couch, entertainment center, hand made oak china cabinet and tables and tables of plates and kitchenware. One complete set of elegant china graced the table, the made in Japan stickers still clinging to the bottom of the expensive place setting for eight.

The sunroom held more dishes, another fridge, tons of books, and a set of Nikita china.

All three bedrooms still had the beds, one with a large solid brass beauty.  Another bedroom held Amelia's treasure:  a large dresser with ornate details and mirror that will be absolutely gorgeous once painted.

The closets still had clothing, most of it men's.  The linen closet held quilted items that must have taken hours and hours of precious time.

I found the estate sales manager and dared ask the question that I really didn't want to know the answer to...

"What happened to the owners?  Have they passed on?"

She said that the wife had died eight years ago.  The husband passed away recently.

Why am I crying over people I don't even know?

Is it because there was no one to come and claim their belongings?  No, I think it is because none of their family found their belongings worth having. 

Not the china.  Not the handmade afghans.  Not the piano.  Not the solid brass bed.  Not even the postcards from a long-ago war era.

The whole experience has made me ponder what I will be leaving behind one day.  I imagine that my children and their children won't find a lot of value in my china or my metal bed.  I had better come up with something more meaningful to leave to them.

Spiritual Inheritance.

Those are the words I am pondering.

If all they take with them after I pass on is a true and living faith with the One True God, then it is all that matters in the end.

But they better take the piano.  Or I will come back and haunt them.