Lately, I’ve become relentless regarding the letting go of my physical possessions. For two weeks in a row now, I’ve packed my vehicle with as many items as I could and then headed to a community thrift store at a church not too far away from my home. If something’s not currently being used and has little potential for near-future use, I’m simply letting it go, with one most noteworthy exception–an old, tattered wicker basket that has sat (for decades ) and will continue to sit in a special place in my house.
Like most things, what makes this basket significant is the story behind it, the tender story of a most awkward young girl. I met her twenty-three years ago when I was a college senior doing my student teaching in a middle school Spanish class. She was tall, lanky really, rather clumsy and wore those small round Harry Potter-like glasses (which were not yet cool). And since she did not seem very expressive, I had sort of assumed that she didn’t care all that much for me/my teaching or Spanish. It seemed that she was almost always checked out of class and dreaming of something far more interesting than the reality around her. For this reason, I was shocked when she came up to me with a good-bye gift the last day of my student teaching; and it was one of the very first gifts I ever remember getting as a teacher.
When I opened her gift, the mouth of my boss (her “real” teacher) fell wide open and she then shook her head disappointedly and embarrassingly. The gift was a basket that looked rather like it had seen its better days, though one could tell by its delicate ribbons that it had once been rather lovely. My young student then began to look a little more undone than usual and I wondered if she had accurately read the expression on the veteran teacher’s face. Thus, I very quickly praised her gift, telling her how much it meant to me and assuring her that I would not forget her and her thoughtfulness for a long, long time.
I told that young girl the truth that day because she is the one student whom I still remember the most, all thanks to that basket. While I don’t know the story behind its origin, I do know why I’ve kept it all these years. It’s not for my student’s sake but for my God’s. You see, I’ve come to realize, as I’ve failed repeatedly over the years to do the thing that I feel sure would most please him, that the quality of my gifts will never measure up to his standard; he, however, through his Christ loves me just the same, and I believe he appreciates the very same thing that I did all those years ago when a girl handed me a worn-out basket–I knew she had thought of me. And I believe it’s meaningful to God when we think of him.
It’s really good for me to be reminded of this today, to be reminded of God’s ultimate gift–unending grace through his Christ. Nineteen years ago on this very day my dear father was found dead, and the circumstances of his death were indeed “questionable.” And though I struggled to feel close to God for many years after my dad’s death, and still struggle at times, I was gently reminded of God’s true nature as I boxed up my house this week and stumbled across a little basket from the past. Our God is most certainly a God of grace–and his stamp, his signature, is all around us and in us if only we would believe enough to see him there.
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