What Remains

Saturday morning I arrived back home after spending the night at my parents' to find my street jammed with cars. After negotiating my car around the truck blocking my driveway, I realized the reason for all the activity was an estate sale going on next door. I had met my next door neighbor only a few times. She was an elderly woman in poor health and our conversations all took place between my backyard and her screened in porch. We had often talked of me having an extra key to her house, "for emergencies", but never got around to making the exchange. Lately I had been wondering about her; the weather had gotten warmer and I was a bit worried not to see her out on the porch. It wasn't until Saturday that I learned that she had died. A month ago.

I joined the throng of bargain-hunters and went into her home that looked exactly the way mine must have 30 years ago. I walked through what remained of her earthly possessions; those that hadn't been taken as mementos and heirlooms by family, those that hadn't been sold the day before. I felt odd, walking through her emptied living room, seeing the dishes stacked up for sale in the kitchen. I had just come hoping to find out what had happened to her; I left quickly once it became clear that those running the sale did not know. I was not interested in watching strangers get bargains from my neighbor's lifelong home.

I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in my favorite chair in my own living room (so like hers), writing a sermon and watching out the window as the Salvation Army truck came to take the last of her possessions. And I could not help but think about the things we leave behind. Once we have died, what remains? The texts for this Sunday included the story from Acts of Tabitha, a woman devoted to good deeds and charity, who took ill and died. The disciples called for Peter. When he arrived where her body was, he found all the widows of the town there grieving. They showed him the tunics and other clothes that Tabitha had made. With their friend and benefactor gone the only thing they had to remember her by were the works of her hands; the things she had made; the heirlooms she had left behind. Well, then again, that's not really true. They also had their stories and memories of the things she said, the kindness of her heart, the difference she had made in each of their lives. What she left behind was so much greater than any material thing.

And so it is for my neighbor. She had a large family; many children and grandchildren remain as a living legacy to her life and witness. She was influential in the community; a member and benefactor of many organizations that have done and will continue to do good works in this community. Surely some of those most special mementos that were removed before the estate sale folks arrived are even now being held lovingly in someone's hands as they remember this person who was so dear to them. And there's something more. Tabitha's story ends with Peter calling her to get up from her death bed and then taking her, raised from the dead, to the same widows who were still clinging in grief to the last material remembrances of their friend. The life and legacy of my next door neighbor will not end as they lock the tailgate of the Salvation Army truck. Because Christians trust that even as her possessions are being scattered throughout the city, she is being called out of death and into life.

The house next door is empty now. But it was not so long ago we celebrated an empty tomb. The promise of new life remains.