Memories for Sale

My husband and I have need of a new lawn mower so, having read in the paper that there was a town-wide tag sale today, we decided to drive down a few streets and see if anybody happened to be selling one. Most places we drove by seemed to have nothing we were interested in. We decided to try one last stop, a house that was having an estate sale. I had never really walked into another person's house before for such a purpose but I have to say it was an odd feeling.

The woman's mother had passed away and I couldn't help but think of how it must feel to see people tritely handling articles of clothing and furniture that were once touched by the loving hands that you could no longer hold again. Mirrors that once reflected a face that smiled down at you since childhood  being examined critically by passersby.  Wallpaper that had been adored by the woman who spent time admiring their designs, scrutinized. The fabric on clothing and furniture, bearing imperfect scars, the wood on shelves and tables with their deep grooves, all telling of a time when life pulsated through this house with its own energy, creating memories in the hearts of those who trod barefoot down its halls. 

I walked along the hallway passing rooms on either side and was drawn deeper into the heart of the house ending up in the bedroom. I could sense that this was a place the woman's mother spent most of her time towards the end. Scattered on the bed were old Catholic daily devotional publications and papers. One paper, small and folded, laying in a heap of many others, had happened to catch my eye. I picked it up and was only able to read a few lines before my husband came in and reminded me we were short on time. It was said that anything in the room was free so I hastily tucked the single piece of paper in my pocket and left.

I just opened it a moment ago and finally had the opportunity to read it in its entirety. It is a poem which some of you might recognize, though I was unfamiliar with until just a few minutes ago. I wonder how often this woman had read it, for the edges are tattered and there have been many folds impressed in its yellowing paper, as if she had folded it different ways on different occasions.


Here it is:

The Difference

I got up early one morning and rushed right into the day;
I had so much to accomplish, I didn't have time to pray.

Problems just tumbled about me and grew heavier with each task;
Why doesn't God help me, I wondered; He answered, "You didn't ask."

I wanted to see joy and beauty, but the day toiled on, gray and bleak;
I wondered why God didn't show me - He said, "But you didn't seek."

I tried to come into God's presence; I used all my keys at the lock;
God gently and lovingly chided, "My child, you didn't knock."

I woke up early this morning and paused before entering the day;
I had so much to accomplish that I had to take time to pray.

by Grace L. Naessens

This woman whose name I will never know blessed me with a poem that declares a message of tremendous significance. To start the new day with prayer and to continue my waking hours conversing with God. To ask, to seek and to knock at the door of His throne room. That's the formula to gain entrance into the heart of God and to open up to greater depths of His love and reality- to maintain an active and experiential relationship with our holy and compassionate God, who loves us and gives us His all.


I'd love to know your thoughts. Please share them in the comments section! Thank you!