The day my husband bought home my all time favourite chair is one I’d rather forget. He drove his car up to the front door, after a long day at work to find his eight month pregnant wife less than impressed. He hauled a large white chair, a practical monstrosity from his car with a giddy smile on his face.
He’d gone rogue to surprise me with a leather feeding chair, (you know those ones that look like they were made for pensioners who watch daytime television) and my face creased slightly as I tried to fake a smile.
My poor Mr, so desperate to help in this season of vulnerability, was so confused by my reaction. You see when it comes to furniture in our little seaside shack, I’m much more akin to road side treasures, pre-loved, worn furniture with aged foam memories.
Play the movie forward nearly three years later and those furniture memories have been etched into my favourite chair and it is more like a hugging, comforting friend than a piece of wood and leather.
It may not look fancy or fit in with the rest of our furniture family but this chair holds precious moments in its creases as it stately sits in our corner. Like the time my newborn baby boy came home from the hospital, all crinkly, little and cranky. Or the time that my ninety year old Grandmother held her newest great-granddaughter, her namesake.
I remember the moment I watched my husband place his son on his bare chest, intent on forming a bond that was unbreakable and those painful moments when I tried desperately to stay calm whilst rocking a screaming little human in the dull hours of the morning.
This chair has been my partner in crochet crime, my crucible of long whispered prayers and my resting place after days of seeking out wisdom in novice motherhood.
It makes me think what kind of person this chair might be if it came alive with blood and water running through its veins.
I think it would be a She. With a capital S.
I think my leather feeding chair, with a small ripped edge, would be granted the fairest and best award for steadiness in the midst of a crazy few years. My little white friend, who sits quietly in the corner, ever faithful, waiting to provide me comfort as the wash of winter fades.
Although it is not that pretty, it stands bright and beautiful in my corner, living strong and not asking for any attention.
She lives bright.
She doesn’t call out and say look at me everyone, I’m an awesome piece.
She just does her job, provides comfort and is completely sure in what she was designed for.
There is something to be said for our old faithfuls.
Just like that pair of knickers that stays put, free from lace and frill, those jeans that fit freely and the mug that holds its warmth of tea just a little longer as we run around filling our families needs.
Living bright, doesn’t necessarily mean calling attention to ourselves. I think it is simply living with a self-assurance of what we were created for. A deep understanding that we were created with purpose and when we are true to that essence, we become our families favourite hiding place and strong tower in the midst of troubled times.
Shine bright this Christmas my dear friends.
Not with loud words and extravagant expressions, calling attention to our needs, but by being steady, brave and true.
Some random thoughts today from a piece of furniture that wasn’t initially welcomed into our house, but will be sorely missed when the time comes to re-home her in the coming years.
I am taking part in a December Memory capturing journey. Join me and decide to do something creative next year by hash tagging #inspire15