In the closet under the stairs is a box full of treasure.
No one would guess that a plastic storage box is really a treasure chest.
When I’m dead and gone and my children and grandchildren sift through all my worldly goods, I hope they don’t pass it by for it’s humble appearance.
Inside they will find yellowed pages and bulging journals, the treasure maps of a sojourner stumbling her way through this life, seeking the Kingdom where lies eternal treasure that moth and rust can’t touch.
I hope they’re not disappointed that I’m not leaving them more of this world’s gold.
I hope when they stumble upon the tear stained pages filled with prayers for them, filled with God’s promises for them, that they realize this was the best inheritance I could give.
I hope when they read the cries of a young mama who needed Wisdom from Above to know how to be a mama, that they realize His help, His wisdom, made all the difference.
I hope when they read the pages with scribbling about my doubts and fears, hurts and anger, disappointment and frustration, that they don’t stop there, that they keep reading long enough to realize I kept walking through the slough of despair and came out on the other side, came out and stood on Solid Rock by His grace, only by His grace.
I hope they understand that mixed with the words describing ordinary days, and the highs and lows of an ordinary life, are prayers and promises and communication back and forth between me and an Extraordinary God. I hope they understand the inseparable weaving of the threads of the natural and the Supernatural in the life of a Jesus follower. I hope they know, beyond a shadow of doubt, that this mortal has put on immortality, and that I am forever with the One I love, and that their hearts burn with twice the passion for Him as mine.
When I’m dead and gone, tell my children and grandchildren that in the closet under the stairs is a box full of treasure, the pages of my life.