I used to like new shoes. I used to not want to get so wet in the rain. I used to like my things better when they weren’t worn off and dented.
Maybe it’s because I’m getting older, or hopefully wiser and more surrendered, or maybe just more set in my ways–but I’m noticing how much I dearly love and admire the worn, the used, the exhausted, the faded.
I’m not talking about buying a piece of furniture that’s been manufactured with some dents and scratches to make it look old. I’m talking about door frames half-covered in old whitewash that you got in trouble for peeling off when you were five years old and curious. About an abandoned shed in forgotten meadows surrounded by rusty barbed wire, that you know upon a glance was put to good use in the good old days. About the hand-carved and hand-polished knives that my grandpa used to make at his workbench, good and solid and expected to last for at least a few generations. About heavy, musty-smelling, dark-bound books on the shelf at Nana’s, each with its own history, that I’ll set on a bookshelf in my own home someday.
I love these true, and heavy, and real, and quality things. I don’t even fully know why I do, yet. But I am being stirred to desire candor and simplicity through honest, faithful labor. It sounds strange, maybe even contrary. But I don’t want to be contrary. I just want to find out how we made a world where little boys play with computers more than with frogs and fires, and why little girls sing pop songs instead of hymns and nursery rhymes.
But I suppose all I have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to me. So I will look it up in a book, instead of googling it, and I will try to fix it before I buy a new one, and I would much rather make it myself.
Thank you, O Creative God, for setting eternity in our hearts. And for placing Your own creative nature in us, that we might pursue that eternity through the beauty we try to fashion with our own clumsy fingers. You make everything so grand.