Small Things Saved

My parents moved to a smaller home last year, and after downsizing their house, have since been in the process of downsizing their stuff. I’ve spent some time with my mom going through boxes, helping her sift the accumulation of several lifetimes (I come from a long line of women who enjoyed collecting pretty things), trying to decide which to keep, which to give to family, which to send to thrift stores, and which to still think about.

The process has had a different feel to it as we’ve done it together, not like when we engaged in similar work after my grandma’s death. That felt more like a dissolving of salt in water—watching the crystals of her material life disappear into nothingness. This feels more deliberate and empowering as my mom makes decisions about where to place each item. More like a puzzle.

One of the boxes we came across had relics from my dad’s side of the family—a great grandfather’s typewritten journal, photos, certificates, a box with a medal given to my grandfather for his service in WWII, other unrecognizable pins and paraphernalia that must have at some point had meaning.

One thing we opened was a small box containing hairpins—old barrettes and bobby pins (bobby pins!) likely belonging to my dad’s sister Irene, who had a heart attack last year and passed away. “She won’t be needing these,” my mom said. I found myself wondering when the last time was that Irene touched them, what she was thinking, why she put them in the box. I marveled that the small collection had survived the breaking up of household items after my dad’s parents’ deaths, had survived two moves by my parents, and were now in my hands. It was one witness, among many, of the power and weight of time. It wasn’t the pins that were valuable—it was the fact that someone had saved them. That they carried over sixty years of history, of existence. That someone we knew and loved and could no longer touch had touched them, had placed them in the box.

In the end, we rather unsentimentally relegated the box of hairpins to the trash heap, along with the broken reading glasses and other items too small or old or unusable to save. We were working under the constraints of space, and had to (many times over) disentangle the value of the items themselves from the value of the time and memories they were laden with. Even small things, and perhaps small things especially, risk devolving into chaos, a jumble of meaningless junk without the space necessary to see and appreciate the detail of each one. We simply couldn’t save it all.

Even though I am a fan of de-cluttering and was happy to cheer my mom on in her efforts to reduce, I’ve found myself returning in my mind to the many small things we touched, especially those saved for no obvious reason. I’ve found myself thinking of the God of small things—sparrows, numbered hairs, and how value rests not in the things themselves, but in His awareness of them, the willingness to save, or in other words, to cherish, to love.

There is quite a bit of theological thought given to salvation (and in Mormon spheres, to the difference between that and exaltation). I’ve been taught all my life to want these. I’ve also been taught that God loves me. But I’m only just beginning to understand how this might work. How a God who is not bound by either time or space, cherishes the small things and saves them, even when there is no obvious reason.

I can’t always relate to being a saint, can’t always feel that I’m capable of doing what it takes to qualify for salvation. But I feel I might be able to place my bruised faith in the hands of a God who saves small things.

Maybe then I can be at peace with being one.