Comfort in Old Things

I draw comfort from old things. An ancient tree, twisted and gnarled, reaching for the sky. A humble hillside chapel, its stones from a distant age, a spiritual shelter for pilgrims past. A simple pathway, well-trodden and well-kept, flattened by booted feet year after year.

I draw comfort from old things and from knowing that in their shadows, others have stood or passed, while others have wondered, wandered, and wept. I am not the first. If past is prelude, as they say, I won’t be the last.

I look for this comfort in these sturdy, well-worn places, because the storms of life are many, and already I feel weathered. But then I look to these old trees, these old stones, this old path, and I think, Things can hold. Things can weather. Things can remain.

It is not the things that give comfort—not entirely. It is what they have seen. Who has passed this way before? What wearying burdens and hidden joys did they carry as they went?

When these forebearers of mine—of ours—leaned upon the old bark of this tree, what did they think? When they rested upon these aged stones, what did they feel? When they passed through this storied path, where were they going?

It’s these forgotten people, then, from whom I draw my comfort. I see a reminder that we are a pilgrim people, and our lineage stretches back into the far distance. Though the storms batter us, that lineage remains. So, too, do our shared humanity and dignity.

We encounter a communion of people: women and men made holy by the shared pilgrim journey through this graced life. This is a communion of struggling saints. We share this legacy, this lineage, this story. I draw my comfort from a shared narrative thread, woven across time and space, a rope we all fumble to grasp as we make our way onward.

I draw my comfort from this shared story, a tale of many chapters of sorrow, grief, pain, hope, love, and rejoicing. There are chapters left to be written, but this tale is one story in one great sweeping narrative.

I draw my comfort from the author of this sweeping story, the one who both bounds the book and becomes the bond that holds tight the tale’s countless characters. It is God in all things from whom I draw my comfort, as God stretches back into the ether of time and reaches out ahead to destinations yet unknown to us.

Here is our God who is in the story and its characters. Our God knows the path. Our God shores up our foundation of stones. Our God reaches up and through the ancient tree as it yawns at the sky.

I draw comfort from old things, because they have spent time with God—more time than I have, at least. And while the tree and the stone and the path may not speak in words I know, God’s Spirit dwells here as it always has. From the simple things, we have much to learn.

In knowing that there is always more to know, that God is of unfathomable depths, and that even the oldest tree is but a blink in God’s eye, I draw great comfort.