The attic stairs moaned like an old man getting out of bed in the morning as I pulled them down from the garage ceiling. As I ascended the stairs, I thought to myself, “I hope the light still works.” I found the cord and pulled. Suddenly, I could see to the far reaches beneath the roof. It was empty except for one box.
When we moved into the house, we made a pact. We will not fill the attic with stuff. We worked too hard to declutter our lives with this move. If there is no place for it in the house, we’ll sell it or donate it. But it will not find a place in our attic.
Unless we’re talking about Christmas. Five totes of decorations, one filled with nativities, Santas, snowmen, and themed-plates, plus a three-part Christmas tree had to go somewhere. April is a long way from the holidays, so all those things get a place in the attic.
As I surveyed the space, I was glad to see some plywood nailed across the the rafters. From experience, I knew it was way too easy to step through the ceiling.
I scrambled back down the stairs for the first tote. I pushed it up ahead of me and found a good place to start storing up Christmas. I grabbed the box left behind by the previous owners and headed back down for more.
The box was about eight inches per side, a cube that felt to be a little more than five pounds. What did they forget to take with them? What did they leave behind?
I was too curious to wait. I grabbed by knife and sliced through the packing tape. Pulling the box flap aside, I looked inside and saw a plastic bag secured by a twist tie. I untwisted the tie and looked inside, finding what looked like ashes.
Ashes. Uh-oh. I’ve held a box like this before. Someone once handed me a box like this in their backyard at a family memorial and said, “Do what you usually do.” At the time, I was a rookie pastor who had never held a box of remains. As we stood in the backyard, bordering a salt marsh, I said a quick prayer, opened up the box, and threw the contents up into the air, letting the wind carry them away. (Note: always make sure the wind is blowing away from you and the family’s home.)
Ashes. This was a box filled with someone’s remains. Grandma? Uncle Sid? The wife everyone thought ran away with the other guy? The family dog? Great-grandpa?
It was weird, but I had to make the phone call. “Hey, I found a box in the attic. When can I drop it off?”
It wasn’t theirs. They didn’t leave anything behind. They never went up into the attic. It must have been from a previous owner. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to get in touch with them.”
Great. Here is a person, a life, a relative, reduced to a box of ashes. Doesn’t anyone miss this, I mean, them? Is this what we’ll all be someday, a box of ashes forgotten in an attic?
Maybe there’s something written on the box. A clue. A crematory? Funeral home?
Nada. Nothing. Not a clue as to who this was. I searched the internet. No obituaries, stories, or missing persons connected with this address.
It’s sobering to realize that this is how you’ll end up. A simple six or maybe seven pounds of ashes in a box in an attic. It’s a little depressing, too.
As I sat and pondered my discovery, something caught my eye. It was subtle, not gray. Something shiny? This is too weird. I ran my finger through the ashes and hit something hard. Bone? No. It’s…a ring. A gold ring. It’s large, like one that would fit a man’s finger.
Well, it’s not Grandma. Or Aunt Kate. Or the missing wife.
It was Uncle John. Great-grandpa Will. Someone with large fingers and strong hands.
Well, we’re not going to live here forever. I folded the flaps together and pushed the box to a far corner of the attic. When we move to another house, we’ll just leave it – or them – right here.
This is their home.
Waite for it... 