Sanded Through

A few years ago I purchased a piece of furniture on Craigslist for $20. It’s a classic colonial dark pine buffet and hutch, something similar to what my mother had in our dining room in the 1980s. As I sanded by hand every inch and crevice, exposing new surface and leaving some old, I considered how even our furniture can reflect a little bit of who we are. We are a people continually being made new. By the very hands of our Creator who makes us more like him. By the experiences that round out our edges. By the people who enhance our character. By the hurts that peel back layers. By the jobs that wear us down. By the children who paint us new. By the years that give us lines. And with every new layer of heart and spirit, comes a story, his story etched into our very being. My favorite pieces of furniture are ones with history. Like the piece built by black hands on my veranda in Uganda. Like the small tables I remember holding lamps and coffee mugs in my grandmother’s homes {which now have sticky little fingerprints covering their naturally weathered finish}. Like the little painted hutch my grandpa would placed his wallet, keys and tobacco pouch, and how now it holds little girl treasures and baby doll belongings. Like my grandma Pippin’s cabinet that once displayed her china, now graces my barn with mason jars of dried hydrangeas. As the sand paper pierced through the dark old stain and rubbed my fingertips raw, I considered the irony in how our generation is fascinated with rusticating our furniture. We’re sanding edges and wiping on glazes that give a weathered look. I’m not sure if we know why Pottery Barn is selling this style, or why we are buying it. I wonder if it’s our need for authenticity. For things to be real. For imperfection to be embraced. Mostly in ourselves, but in the things around us too. It’s like we’re rejecting the shiny, more sterile ways that proved false. And the current cultural habit of replacing everything that is broken or old, instead of repairing or appreciating the way things age. So even if the furniture is new, we want it to have character or the appearance of a history. And if it doesn’t have one, we create it. When we remodeled our kitchen, we replaced cabinets, counter tops, and the sink. We redesigned the layout, tore down walls, added moldings and painted. And in our choices, we were intentional in making the new look old, as if we’ve been cooking and hosting in it for years. We purchased cabinets with the wood grain peeking through the paint and glaze. We wrapped an already existing drywall beam with 100 year old barn wood, making it appear as if it’s a part of the structure of the house, as if we built the kitchen around it. These choices come from our appreciation of the aged look, the style that reflects a living space, an environment where people are active and productive. And though making the new look old is a bit disingenuous, the intention comes from an authentic desire for the things around us to feel real. We want to be surrounded by things of old, things that remind us of younger years and grandparents and the roots that gave us life. For the things of the past give meaning to who we are now. And to who we will become. I recall how God continually reminded Israel of their past, of their forefathers who came before them, of the victories that showed Him as faithful, of their past sins that revealed their need for a Savior. He turned the eyes of Israel to their past, in order to establish them as a present and future people. We inherently long for this same reality. Stories that tell us who we are. Pictures that remind us of things we’ve done. Memories that shape who we’ve become. Treasures that keep us remembering. May we be a people who hospitably welcome the past to grace our now. Some pasts are easier to welcome than others. Some have caused wounds and their painful to revisit. But whether it’s been joyful or fatherless or painful or sinful, we believe in a God who re-creates us from these whole and broken pieces. He makes us new, while preserving our past that we might hope for our eternal future. Let the stories we tell and the environments we dwell reflect an appreciation for things of the past. When I finished the buffet and hutch, I organized it with our everyday dishes and cookbooks and a few special pieces that my grandma used in her kitchen. I can’t help but wonder if one day it will serve in the home of one of my children. I hope the story they tell with it speaks of a kitchen that welcomed people of all kinds to sit at the table and eat its good food, the kind that fills the soul. But more importantly, I hope they tell of a mother who was sanded through just like this piece of furniture, exposing her genuine character, raw and open for Jesus to recreate.