When To Let Go. When to Hold On.

Considerations When Moving

“So, do you want your old Raggedy Ann doll?” I asked my eldest daughter for the umpteenth time. It was left behind when she went off to college twenty-nine years ago. I was packing for a move, trying to thin out items I no longer needed or wanted. Every decision I had to make seemed overwhelming.

A long pause hung in the air between us. Before she even sighed, I knew the answer would be the same. Heather was sentimental about many of her belongings, but this former plaything was not one of them. Even in its prime, Ann was never a beautiful doll, but now she was nearly forty years old and looked it.

The doll was a gift for my daughter’s second Christmas. We didn’t have much money, so the homemade gift was a sacrifice of love. We lived in the woods of northern Idaho, and shopping was non-existent. There would be no fluffy white stuffing for Raggedy Ann. So, I carefully washed old pantyhose with runs in them, snipped them up, and used the pieces to give the doll shape. It made her heavy and awkward rather than soft and cuddly.

However, I had taken great pride in picking the perfect fabric scraps to fashion her dress. I then cut up an old café curtain and adapted it for the apron. The doll’s lips puckered, showing off my limited embroidery skills. I sighed, then peeked under her dress. There, across her chest, were the words: I Love Heather. I smiled. At least I’d done a pretty good job of stitching the words. I shook off the memory and turned my attention back to my daughter.

“Uh, no,” my Heather finally replied. Her head was dipped as if embarrassed. “But I want to take a few pictures of her.”

Energized with a new purpose, she posed the doll atop my buffet. We used a canning jar to help her sit upright and placed her in various poses. Then, she took out her cell phone, and the photo session began earnestly. The doll’s button eyes stared blankly at us. Did she know she might be discarded?

I turned away to hide the tears beginning to warm up in my eyes. 

Get a grip. It’s only a doll.

When I turned around, I noticed tears running down Heather’s cheeks. Then came the sobs.

I looked at her.  “Are you okay with me moving? I thought we were good here.”

I have been widowed for over seven years now and am ready for a change.

“This is the last house Dad lived in,” she said as we fell into each other’s arms, weeping for our mutual loss. 

I took a deep, cleansing breath to get myself under control. “You know I don’t want to move very far away. If anything, I’ll move a bit closer to you.”

“I know it’s the right thing,” she assured me again. “The place you and Dad chose certainly didn’t turn out how it was supposed to…”

I stood. “Ready to face the garage?” I asked. I’d been dreading the piles of guy stuff my husband had used over the years. “I’ve got things pretty well sorted. I want your nephews to have some of your dad’s tools.”

“Not my girls?” she teased. It was always about gender equality with her.

“I got the twins a small hammer and a few tools a couple of years ago,” I reminded her.

Heather dipped her head in acknowledgment of my words. 

We headed out the door and settled at the workbench to begin sorting. Who would get what? What would be given away? I glanced up at the moose antlers. My husband, Randy, had been fortunate enough to get a permit and a moose during our second fall in the mountains.  I must keep them, I decided, and the Raggedy Ann doll, too.

Widowhood brought many secondary losses. Not everyone who was part of my former life stayed for my future. It was a hard reality but a truth many widows face. So, I’ve had to choose to let go of what I must and keep what I need to remember the best of my former life.  My husband’s memory and Jesus are going with me, and that’s all I really need.