Cigar boxes. Refrigerator doors. Scrapbooks and sock drawers and top shelves. These are the places we store our treasures–the keepsakes that tell the story of whom and what we’ve loved, how we’ve lived, and what matters most to us.
God is a collector, too, whose treasures are tucked securely into the pages of his book: a golden bell here, an olive leaf there, a scarlet thread, a blood-stained cloth, a few grains of barley. Each of these saved artifacts reveals a facet of his heart and tells the story of a Father whose most precious possession is…us.
In Treasured, Leigh McLeroy considers tangible reminders of God’s active presence and guides us in discovering evidence in our own lives of his attentive love.
From the Hardcover edition.
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|Title of eBook: Treasured|
|Release Date: 09-15-2009|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: The Doubleday Religious Publishing Group|
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Memories by Mail
A battered cardboard box arrived by mail a few weeks after my grandfather’s death, postmarked from the small West Texas town where he lived most of his years, the town where a crumbling cemetery now cradled his remains.
Inside the box, suspended in weightless drifts of white Styrofoam, a smaller, more pungent box was buried. An old cigar box.
Like young Jem Finch of To Kill a Mockingbird, I lifted the lid of my newly arrived treasure chest in private. But instead of carved soap figures, marbles, and other childhood collectibles, I saw a handwritten note: “Here are some of Pepaw’s things.” Then, in an obvious afterthought: “He kept these.”
The well-meaning aunt who sent this shipment must have intended to place some final mark of punctuation on my grandfather’s interrupted ninth decade, but for his youngest daughter’s youngest daughter, the box formed not a period but a colon. Meet your grandfather, it seemed to say. Maybe you didn’t know him so well after all.
If I had expected some sort of inventoried order, I would have been disappointed. It looked as if Willis Smith had simply emptied his pockets on his last day, filling the cigar box with the contents of his neatly creased khakis, as if to say, There you go. That ’bout does it.
I lowered my face and inhaled deeply, breathing in the last, elusive fragrance of a man I had adored. Nothing in the box could have been worth more than a few dollars, and there was not a single keepsake that might be considered suitable for display. But every small scrap it contained told a story—his story.