Part of the joy of moving is the uncertainty of knowing where your stuff is, said no one ever. Granted, I’ve moved a lot. Unlike my mother, who lived in the same town for nearly 50 years, my life has been a bit transient at times. While I did live in the same house for my entire first 18 years, I soon entered into a moving kind of life. I moved to Kaufman. I moved to a Washington, DC suburb. I moved back to Texas: first to Mesquite, then to Forney, then Rockwall, then back to Forney. I even lived in Tyler for 6 months, once. Lots of packing. Lots of unpacking. I’m a pro. Nothing beats this last move, though. Turns out, moving a football field’s distance into a tiny house and moving back, all in 18 months, is a nightmare. Everything is right there at your fingertips but nothing is within reach. Take, for instance, my silverware. No, really. Take it. Someone apparently did.
Living in a tiny house requires miniaturizing the count on everything. Do you own 30 pair of shoes? Great, take 2 pair. Also, you’re allowed 2 pair of britches, a work pair and a church pair. While you’re at it, bring 2 t-shirts, too. Tiny house living is a lot like Noah’s Ark, minus the gender of the animals. Then again, socks do have a habit of procreating, but they only make more baby left socks. This is also the way things go with cutlery. You don’t need service for 8. You don’t need the good silver, which is fabulous since we don’t own good silver. You just need a couple of forks, the odd spoon or two, and so on. Fast forward to this week. After several days of transitioning back into the bungalow, I realized, should I have to wash those same two forks again for one more night, I might put someone’s eye out with a wayward tine. I have a running list of things I can’t find. Where are my vintage baby dolls? Where is my sewing machine? I haven’t laid eyes on the loveseat slipcover in a month of Sundays. And, where in tarnation are all the forks? After daily trips to the storage building on our property, and after multiple forays up the scary attic stairs, I came to terms with the catastrophe. My silverware is gone. It ran away, perhaps with a dish whilst being laughed at by a dog. I haven’t lost any of those – dogs, that is. As in every foible of my life, I went to the one person who could fix it all. I went to see Momma. I complained. I wrung my hands. I was the accuser and the victim of my silverwareless existence. At one point, my mother left the room, in the middle of my stainless steel lament – the nerve of her! A few minutes later, she rounded the corner with a large slate blue plastic tray. “Here you go. Your father refused to let me get rid of this. Here’s your grandmother’s silverware.” That is how, in a strange turn of events, I spent this entire Sunday afternoon studying this odd assortment of metal utensils that the entire Stilwell dynasty ate from for an eternity, but that no one has used in nearly 30 years. I’m in awe of each and every mismatched pattern. Yep, no two are alike. There are rose forks. There are fleur de lis forks. There is even a sterling silver knife with a J monogram, which makes no sense at all, Annie Mae Davis Stilwell. I love them all. Also, it reminds me of an inspirational story I read recently, you know, on Facebook, the home of inspirational stories.
There was a young woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and had been given three months to live. She contacted her Pastor and had him come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes, like which songs she wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what outfit she wanted to be buried in. Everything was in order and the Pastor was preparing to leave when the young woman suddenly remembered something very important to her. “There’s one more thing,” she said excitedly. “What’s that?” came the Pastor’s reply. “This is very important,” the young woman continued. “I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand.” The Pastor didn’t know what to say. “Well, to be honest, I’m puzzled,” he said. She explained, “In all my years of attending dinners, when the main course was being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, ‘Keep your fork.’ It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming.... like cake or apple pie. Something wonderful! I want people to see me in that casket with a fork in my hand and wonder what’s with the fork. Then I want you to say, ‘Keep your fork. The best is yet to come.” The Pastor’s eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the young woman good-bye. He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before her death. But, he also knew that she had a better grasp of heaven than he did. She KNEW that something better was coming. At the funeral, people were walking by the young woman’s casket and they saw the fork in her right hand. Over and over, the Pastor heard the question, “What’s with the fork?” And, over and over he smiled. During his message, the Pastor told the people of the conversation he had with the young woman shortly before she died, about the fork and what it symbolized to her. He told the people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and told them that they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it either. He was right. So, the next time you reach down for your fork let it remind you, ever so gently, that the best is yet to come.
Let them eat cake. Let them use forks. Have a great week, Forney.
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