What Remains

When my grandfather died, my parents, siblings, and I were left with the question: what’s to become of the house?

Anyone who has inherited property knows that it’s not simply a matter of assuming ownership of a plot of land upon which sits four walls and a roof. Those four walls and a roof usually contain memories and objects — an enormous volume of both, in the case of my grandfather. When they’re left to you, you have to sift through them, the memories and the objects, and with each one you have to think: Is it worth it? Do I keep it? Will I need it?

And slowly, painfully, you disassemble the physical existence of the person who lived here. You accept, with a pang, that most of it must be given away or discarded. You cry when you bag up the clothes to take to Goodwill. You can’t even bear to look when they break the piano into a hundred pieces and throw it in a dumpster, realizing that no one wants or has a use for something that was once so precious.

But when you come upon a rosary that was used so many times it has begun to fall apart, you don’t even think twice before keeping it, and not because you need the rosary. You need what it means. You need what it reminds you of.

When all is said and done, each of us will be called before our master to settle accounts, just as my grandfather was.

“Where are the gifts I gave you? What remains of the fortune to which I entrusted you?” he will ask us. “What have you done with the peace? What have you done with the love? What have you done with the mercy?”

“You yourselves know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief at night.”

1 Thessalonians 5:2

©LPi