I’ve passed this store dozens of times, never having the time to stop and take a peek. This day was different. This day I had time.
I turned into the parking lot and found a spot in front of the old and worn down building. The huge bold letters on the side tell passersby that it’s an antique store. A multilevel building full of vintage finds– special pieces of someone’s past. As I head up the stairs and inside, I notice the name on the door– Second Stories: vintage & repurposed.
The name is catchy and feels powerful. I love it. Second Stories– feels so inspiring as it hits spaces in my emotional heart that immediately trigger reminders of grief and the loss of my mother. Nowadays, so many things have that impact.
It only takes a couple of steps to realize the beauty of the items that surround me, once loved by someone, now here to be loved by someone new. What was once probably thought as an ending for these items: lost, sold or thrown out, now they hold a second chance.
And just like that, a second story begins.
I think of my mother and her end. The final goodbye that felt like the harshest ending I’ve ever known and certainly the harshest one I’ve ever witnessed. And I think about the faith she so boldly built her life around. One built upon the sturdiest of foundations and one that promised eternity.
And I think of the best second story there is– heaven.
My mother’s story isn’t over now that she’s gone, she’s simply started her second story. The one she believed in. The one she prayed for. The one she taught us about. The one free of disease and free of pain. The one with God.
Our first story is earth. Our second one is heaven.
Just like the items in this antique store, we show up vintage and repurposed. We show up flawed and imperfect. We show up damaged and weak. We show up, just as we are, and we become new. We are welcomed– repurposed and restored.
Our second story, the one without end. The one with Him.
Lost in thought, I look over the items in front of me. I find a stack of books that intrigue me. They’re torn and darkened by age. They’re flimsy and they’re fragile. And I love them.
I bring them to the counter to pay, giving these old books a new purpose and future. A new destination. A new story. Just like my mother was given. And just like I hope to be given one day.
A second story– heaven.
