Yesterday I took part in cleaning out the home of my deceased brother, who passed in April of last year. He had lived near my mother, who left us ten years ago.
What I didn’t expect was this: going through the materials of one life is one thing. Going through the materials of two lives is another.
“What is one man’s junk is another man’s treasure,” they say. But yesterday there was no treasure hunting. I put my head down, pushed my feelings aside, and began sorting: junk, donate, keepsake. Decide. Discard. Move on.
There is something sobering about handling the physical remains of a life. To an outsider, throwing away someone’s belongings might feel criminal. Yet when preparing a home for sale, it becomes practical. Necessary. Even efficient.
The junk hauler arrived. He grabbed furniture and shattered it to make room in the truck. I watched him smash a chair I once sat in as a child. I could almost see my younger self in it — feet not quite touching the floor, small hands gripping the armrests. The crack of wood against pavement felt louder than it should have.
It was just a chair. I know that.
But it wasn’t just a chair.
It was memory. It was a scene. It was a version of me that no longer exists. It was a page of my life being physically torn out.
I know items are not people. I know possessions are temporary. We do not really own anything here — we borrow it for a while. And yet, watching it break still felt like a turning of the page.
The cruel brevity of our time here on earth confronts you in moments like that. We accumulate. We store. We protect. And then one day, someone else sorts it into piles.
Keep.
Donate.
Trash.
Jesus sent His disciples out with almost nothing:
“Take nothing for the journey—no staff, no bag, no bread, no money, no extra tunic.” (Luke 9:3)
“Wear sandals but not an extra shirt.” (Mark 6:9)
And He reminds us:
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy… but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven.” (Matthew 6:19–20)
In the end, we go as we came. One tunic. One pair of sandals. A soul.
It has taken all of my spiritual fitness to see this not just as loss, but as cleansing. Not just as destruction, but as release. I look to God. I look to Jesus. I remind myself that what is needed in the next realm is not furniture, not paperwork, not keepsakes.
Just our soul.
I know my mother and brother are with our Father. I believe they are saved. That gives me peace. But it does not erase the ache of standing in an empty house, watching memory become debris.
Maybe the lesson isn’t to detach from love — but to detach from the illusion that love lives in objects.
The house is being cleared.
The truck is being filled.
The page is turning.
And I am reminded: the only thing we carry forward is what has been formed in our spirit.
Everything else, eventually, is sorted.
Closing Prayer
Father,
Today I release what my hands cannot hold onto forever.
I release the objects, the memories tied to wood and fabric, the echoes that live in empty rooms. You have shown me that nothing earthly was ever truly mine — it was entrusted to me for a season. And now that season has passed. Give me the grace to let go without hardening my heart. Teach me to trust that what mattered was never the chair, the house, or the belongings — but the love shared within those walls.
When letting go feels like losing all over again, steady me. Remind me that You are the keeper of every tear, every memory, every soul.
Help me loosen my grip on what fades and tighten my grip on what is eternal.
I trust You with my brother.
I trust You with my mother.
And I trust You with the parts of my heart that still ache. As I release these things, hold me in Your peace. Strip away what is temporary, and prepare my soul for what lasts forever.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
