In the dim light of dusk we trudged through the snow to the door.
Light spilled from the windows of the farmhouse store.
Antiques lined the pathways and porch.
Most covered with a layer of white.
I took in the scene.
A seaman’s trunk.
A high back chair.
Wrought Iron chair and tables sing of garden tea parties and warmer weather.
What stories these hold.
I step into time as I cross the threshold.
Tables and headboards from days gone by.
Hutches and buffets crowd the small space.
Yet there is an order, despite the seeming chaos.
Chairs and end tables.
Pictures and dishes all cry out from decades gone by.
I am after a Four Poster Canopy bed.
I marvel as I walk through the space.
Each piece longs to share it’s story.
The owner does not disappoint.
She holds the stories I long to hear.
These items are more than pieces of furniture.
They are history; unique.
They have traveled many miles and woven into their fabric an intricate journey.
Each one different from the next.
I fall into step as she glides through her space pointing out a treasure here, a story there.
She owns the item as well as the journey.
She holds the memory.
I could stay here for hours.
A sense of peace and comfort.
Memories are wrapped and shaped.
It is the fabric of our faith.
The story of truth and hope.
The Ancient Word.
Passed down through the generations.
Stories of miracles and strength in the face of deep adversity.
Each piece interwoven in the tapestry of life.
If the story is not told, the faith can not grow.
The stories are sacred and beautiful.
Sometimes harsh and hard.
I strike a bargain and take over ownership of the story.
We are ready to write more of the story of this piece.
We are excited and ready for new things to happen.
God is writing these stories.
He is breathing in hope.
He is strengthening our souls to do the work needed.
Like these fine antiques, we have a story to tell.
Come and hear, all you who fear God;
let me tell you what he has done for me.
God is writing each one of our stories.
He is strengthening us and molding each one of us into His likeness.
Out of that over flow comes the longing and desire to tell His story.
It reminds me of the Old Hymn our family sang around the family piano.
Words that have followed me through the most painful times.
A story that has breathed life and love into my very being.
It is the old, old Story of Jesus and His love.
I Love to Tell the Story -Arabella K Hankey 1866
I love to tell the story of unseen things above,
Of Jesus and His glory, of Jesus and His love;
I love to tell the story, because I know ’tis true,
It satisfies my longings as nothing else would do.
I love to tell the story,
’Twill be my theme in glory,
To tell the old, old story
Of Jesus and His love.
I love to tell the story, more wonderful it seems
Than all the golden fancies of all our golden dreams;
I love to tell the story, it did so much for me,
And that is just the reason I tell it now to thee.
I love to tell the story, ’tis pleasant to repeat,
What seems each time I tell it more wonderfully sweet;
I love to tell the story, for some have never heard
The message of salvation from God’s own holy Word.
I love to tell the story, for those who know it best
Seem hungering and thirsting to hear it like the rest;
And when in scenes of glory I sing the new, new song,
’Twill be the old, old story that I have loved so long.