e-news min musings

Handkerchiefs and aprons. Those words jumped out at me as I was doing my “homework” in preparation for my trip to Turkey and Greece. They seem so down-home, so personal, compared to the rest of the story. They appear in the Acts of the Apostles, chapter 19, verse 12. Paul is traveling around “teaching” and “arguing persuasively,” trying to get churches started and keep them going amidst local pressure and persecution. Then comes this verse: “God did extraordinary miracles through Paul, so that even handkerchiefs and aprons that had touched him were taken to the sick and their illnesses were cured and the evil spirits left them.”

What is it, I wonder, that is special about ordinary objects that have been in the presence of greatness? Leaving aside whether the miracles referred to actually occurred, the fact is that there is something about being in the presence of objects that were in the presence of great figures that gives us a bit of a buzz. Baseballs caught at particular games, pitched by particular players. Articles of clothing thrown back and forth from audience to stage and back at rock concerts. Autographs. (Whatever became of that Brian Wilson autograph I was lucky enough to get in 1964? Who knows, but I wish I still had it!) Heck, it is what museums and restored homes of historical figures are all about: being in the presence of something that had significance long ago.

In the 1930s, my grandmother was honored to be invited a few times to have lunch with Eleanor Roosevelt. On her way to lunch, she would stop at Woolworth’s and buy a bunch of handkerchiefs, stick them in her purse, and when she got home, would carefully label each one: “This handkerchief was in the presence of First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt on such and such a date.” As far as I know, she didn’t take along any aprons. But Grandma’s sense of history led her to believe that someday her grandchildren would appreciate the specialness, and would covet those handkerchiefs. We didn’t, really, and they are lost to history. At least mine is. I remember thinking it was pretty silly when she gave me one. I was far more interested in Brian Wilson.

Yet there is a certain kick in being in the presence of something with history and significance, great or not. It stimulates our imaginations about what life was really like. When I traveled to the southwest and saw cliff paintings from the Anasazi Indians, it was a thrill, especially the tiny footprint of a newborn baby, just like the tiny footprint on my own birth certificate. Objects and markings last far beyond our own brief lives, and their preservation is a mark of hope – that someone will know of our existence, will think it mattered that we lived. It is why it is so difficult to clean out our attics and basements. Objectively, the items have no meaning, but subjectively . . . oh, my, they are practically alive!

Yes, when infused with memory and hope, ordinary objects come alive with meaning. They foster connections, reminding us that we are part of a grand relay through time. Perhaps they even prompt us to reflect on what we are leaving . . . how will people write our history, understand our lives? What handkerchiefs and aprons are we offering posterity?

Love, peace, and grace,

Susan