Kingdom Harbor

“One of the things that attracts me to vintage and antique things is they have stories, and even if I don’t know the stories, I make them up.”

-MARY KAY ANDREWS

Antiquing.

Guilty. I’m one of those people.

How can you predict which strapping young teenager, too cool for their parents and completely absorbed with the present moment, will grow up to become that person who pulls off the interstate to wander through giant barns full of old people’s junk?

We are a little understood and quite diverse collection of the human species. We span a vast spectrum of varieties from clinically diagnosed hoarders, on the one side of the spectrum, buying a little of everything if the price is right, to more sophisticated, historically-inclined treasure hunters and one-item collectors on the other side.

I am the latter. For every 10 stores and 10 hours spent antiquing, I’ll maybe buy one item for about $10. Maybe 5 items a year total. I mainly collect a very specific genre of vintage books. I’ll pick up, for instance, an obscure 1894 Greek New Testament, or find a little collection of sermons from a Covenant pastor from the early 1900s, or, perhaps an old decorative looking classic novel from Dickens or Dostoyevsky for my collection.

Like a treasure hunter, I do a lot of searching and very little buying. My wife should be grateful I’m not the other kind of antique collector.

This morning, on my day off, I wandered west to Buffalo, Minnesota, for a short stint of aimless wandering through the halls of yesteryear. I was greeted at the door by a faithful company of elderly ladies with rural Minnesota accents. They were Buffalo’s very own Dorothy, Rose, Blanche and Sophia.

After the usual banter about how tall I am (“Oh, you’re a tall drink of water”), and if its my first time in the store, they went back to their morning ritual of small town gossip: Peggy Sue’s cancer prognosis, the mixed success of the Olson’s farm auction, the road construction on Main St. and, of course, the weather.

I meandered through each stall, and once again realized that antique shops engage all your senses. You know the smell. Its the smell of grandma’s house or grandpa’s toolshed. It’s the smell of the memory of that old outbuilding you explored as a child even when you were told not to. Most potent, however, is the smell of precious time lost. It’s the aroma of mortality chasing us all into the same inescapable corner.

My sermon text for this next Sunday sums it up: “All people are grass, their constancy is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand for ever” (Isaiah 40).

I paused and pondered my own 38 year journey that had brought me to this old beat down building on a gray Monday morning some 20 miles west of all that’s meaningful and precious to me. Where I live, most Monday drivers head east toward the city to begin a new work week. But this tired pastor began his sabbath day off high tailing it to the country again. Just as water runs downhill, my soul runs west toward my roots.

I resumed walking and turned the corner to glimpse the painting of the old bearded man praying over his soup and daily bread. I think the painting hung over my grandma’s kitchen table when I was a boy (if not, it hangs over my memories of grandma’s kitchen and brings comfort).

I took another long, deep breath, and caught a strong whiff of a memory of a moment that probably never happened. Was it the smell of what could have become of my life had I chosen door A instead of door B?

Oh, by God’s grace I have been led through the right doors, and was in no way feeling bad about my life this gloomy Monday. I was just feeling a bit more reflective than usual, and increasingly nostalgic as the atmosphere worked its magic on all my senses.

Was I smelling joy or sadness, gratitude or longing in that old pole barn? Was I really searching for an old book in that oversized shed, or something less tangible like a feeling of nostalgia, or a burst of joy, or the echo of a memory of a time I never knew and a place I never lived but still wish I could go back to — a time when things were simpler, more wholesome?

As I passed old farm implements, was I looking for the shadow of my grandpas I never really got to know?  As I felt the warmth of the hot water radiator that heats the building over my head near stall 36, was I momentarily transported to the creaky upstairs floor of the farmhouse bedroom where my cousins lived growing up?

Trying (but failing) to avoid the corner decked out with mid-20th century Christmas decorations, I could almost hear the laughter of aunts and uncles and cousins all gathered for Christmas. An uncle brought out an accordion and accompanied my mom on piano. On the large oak table display with old dishes I could almost see and smell turkey and gravy, mashed potatoes and stuffing. And around that table an uncle teased me in a way I wish I felt comfortable teasing my nephews today.

The old ladies continued chatting in the background about nothing (and yet it was their everything) as I reached my destination. The far back right corner is full of bookcases filled with old, dusty books. I held in my hands (and was genuinely tempted to buy) a collection of sermons from some long-dead no-name pastor from some small Minnesota town (which I don’t remember) published around 1900.

I love reading the scribbles on the inside of old books. But I’m often saddened as I wonder how this once-thoughtful gift to a beloved family member now lies orphaned on a shelf in a store perhaps never to be read again. I read the foreword by the author, his heartfelt desire that all who read it would find some spiritual benefit thereby.

Packed in this one volume was perhaps the bulk of this pastor’s entire life’s work and ministry. I picture him laboring week to week in his study (perhaps by the light of a gas lantern) with his Bible open and the cares of his little flock on his heart. Each sermon in this book was a week’s labor. Each message now in ink once flew forth from the pulpit, wild and free, echoing through the walls of a little country church and confronting the gathered faithful: farmers and businessmen, teachers and clerks, the village gossip and town drunk, housewives and squirmy children.

For the brief moments I held this old book open, the story of this no-name pastor and his ordinary flock was living again, speaking out of these long-silenced pages. Who was this pastor? What was his church like? What kind of a ministry did he have? How many copies of this little book were even printed, being that it was a small town pastor of seemingly little repute? Who owned this book? A member of his congregation? Did his sermons get a second life once put into written form?

As I re-shelved the book and thought about the real possibility that its pages will never be cracked again, I thought about my life’s work and my own writings I put into print this past year with the hopes that my words will outlive me and bless others. I also wonder if someone will stumble upon one of my books 100 years from now, and take a moment to ponder my story and wonder if my ministry and little church in Mound bore any lasting fruit.

Yes, “All people (and preachers) are grass, their constancy is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God (even through the mouths of His clay-footed servants) will stand for ever” (Isaiah 40).

The Christmas music playing overhead in the store brought me back to reality, and it was time to return to the present day. As I headed for the door, the Golden Girls approached and said, “Did you find anything?”

“Oh, I found a lot of things,” I said.

“Just nothing that you can’t live without,” Blanche said with a wink.

“Come again!” said Sophia as she waved.

I nodded and smiled as I walked back out into a gray Monday.

Maybe I did find what I was searching for today.  In that musty antique shop I once again caught a whiff of a memory of a moment I was probably never intended to have. We can’t live in the past. We only have the precious present. My true treasures lie east of this momentary westward escape.