A quiet kind of grief comes with sorting through someone’s belongings after they’ve gone. Though heavy, it’s not the kind that overwhelms with tears in the moment. This slow and steady sadness hums under the skin while echoing in the creak of a floorboard or faded certificates on the wall.
This past week, a few of us have gathered to clean out the home of our friend, Miss M. On a Saturday evening, she was enjoying a brand new porch swing with friends. Two days after being rushed to ICU, she was gone. Just like that.
Born in Kansas, SHE’d lived a simple life, full of love and laughter reflected in her things such as mismatched mugs with stories behind each one, clothing she always claimed was “on sale,” and books filled with thoughts she never got to share. Her house was humble, but her warmth hid in in every corner.
We didn’t rush the process. We touched each item, paused over photographs, passed around trinkets and memories like communion. It was heavy, as grief always is, but also strangely beautiful. There’s something deeply human about handling the pieces of a life that meant so much, even in the ordinary.
Some things went to family. Others to friends. A great deal was donated to the little house behind the church. We all agreed this would make HER very, very happy. Quiet and thoughtful, there was also a dark and funny being that lurked below the surface. We all agree she is up in heaven playing the most beautiful golf courses, something SHE hadn’t been able to do for years.
Packing things from the cupboard while carefully arranging them, I thought about how Miss M’s life extended past her death. The belongings she no longer needed would now help someone who still very much did. It was one of those small, quiet acts of grace that reminded me that we don’t stop giving just because we’re gone.
There’s so much talk these days about legacy or how we’ll be remembered or what we’ll leave behind. Most of us won’t be remembered in history books or quoted in speeches. We’ll be remembered when someone holds a mug and thinks of us or as we’re shielded from the cold by HER warm jacket. In those ways, kindness will carry on through ordinary objects that once filled HER life.
As we finished, I looked back at HER little house waiting to be filled with someone else’s life. My thoughts then turned to belongings that will help the people she never met. Although she’s gone, HER kindness remains. Not the stuff, but the love that lingers within. The care. The intention. The quiet legacy of a life well-lived.”
May we all be so lucky to leave behind something we once called ours that still has the power to comfort, nourish, and warm. Thank you, Miss M, for wisdom and friendship. Now, go get that hole-in-one just around the bend.
