Touchstone

I’m more than occasionally afflicted by sentimentalism, and my family recently underwent a group case of the disorder.

In February of 2000, Vickie and I traded her sporty Thunderbird for a practical Ford Explorer.  She was seven months pregnant with Luke, and as awesome as the Thunderbird was, it wasn't a family car.  Two months later, we drove our first baby home in that Explorer.

On Sept 11, 2001, we were on our way to get the tires exchanged due to the Firestone recall when she heard on the radio that a plane had flown into the World Trade Center.  I was following her and will always remember watching her get out of her car at a traffic light and come back to my truck to tell me what was happening.

In March of 2003, our almost three-year-old son and I went to pick up Vickie and our new baby girl, Taylor, in the Explorer.

For almost 15 years we drove that car (Sally) on countless family vacations—from the Florida Keys to Upper Michigan.  It made more than 1500 trips to school. It faithfully took us to doctors appointments, church, the beach, and always to work.  It’s safe to say that we drove our money out of that car.

So in August, it was evident that Vickie needed to trade. Sally squeaked (or talked according to Taylor) at every bump and turn in the road.  The oil stain on the driveway was becoming embarrassing.  The carpet was a series of stains (or memories according to your perspective), and you were reminded of the leak in the back window by the vague musty smell every time you opened the door.

Yet when the time came, it was hard to see the Explorer go. Intellectually, we understood that a car is just an arrangement of steel and plastic, glass and rubber.  It has no soul, no heart, no personality.  Yet we sense an emotional bond, a loss at seeing it go away. Why?

To be human means to experience loss. The older we get, the more acutely we understand our ultimate inability to hold onto anything.  We lose childhood homes. We move from the cities or towns of our youth. We leave one school for another; we get a job and leave a job. We lose friends and relatives to time, space, and eventually to death.  All of these things are the touchstones of our lives, be they a friend, a house, a parent, or a car.

These touchstones trigger the memories that make us who we are. Anyone who has ever revisited an important place from their youth will understand. When you walk into a home or down a school hall that you haven't seen in decades, or when you reconnect with a friend or relative who has been missing from your life, the lost memories flood your mind. When we lose a touchstone, we instinctively realize that we are losing a part of ourselves, a set of memories that we may never recapture.

Loss is death . . . but it’s not supposed to be that way.

God whispers that we were built for life, not for death.  That death and loss are unnatural. That there is a reality of eternal discovery, exploration, and relationship.  The reality that we were made for, the reality that our spirit is testifying to every time we sense the pain of loss.

As Jesus hung on the cross, the thief next to him, being convinced that Jesus was indeed a king who would survive this crucifixion, uttered the words, “Remember me when you come into your Kingdom.” I love those words. He didn’t ask to be saved or spared.  He didn’t seek pity or mercy. He asked to be remembered. So many seek to be remembered, to leave a legacy, to make a lasting impact, but this remembering is different.

Jesus’ response to the request to be remembered was to declare that the thief would be with him in paradise.  Jesus displayed himself as the ultimate touchstone, the cornerstone on which our true reality is founded. To be remembered by Jesus is not to leave a legacy—it’s to be his legacy.

To be remembered by Jesus is to be completed, to be healed, to be restored to the divine intention—to return to the eternal life of discovery, exploration and relationship. To be remembered by Jesus is to never lose or be lost again.

He has sought us, and he has saved us. He has done everything to restore us to the eternal life that’s written in our hearts and declared in his word. He loves us.

So our Explorer is gone.  It’s a little sad, but it’s okay.  After all, it’s just an arrangement of steel and plastic, glass and rubber.  It’s just a small touchstone of loss to remind us of a greater reality.

John Monday