I love taking those little day trips near home here in Pennsylvania. It’s funny, sometimes you don’t realize what treasures are just across the river, right? Kevin and I, we were over in Lambertville, New Jersey, right across from New Hope. I was driving, which, if you know me, you know that’s a whole adventure in itself. I mean, I’m pretty sure I could get lost following a straight line on an empty road. But anyway, we finally got there.
And let me tell you, Lambertville is just charming. It’s all these beautiful old buildings and little shops. But what really struck me was the sheer number of antique stores. I mean, they are everywhere. One after another, after another. It’s a collector’s dream, really.
We went inside a few of them, just browsing. And what you see, what you realize, is that these places are basically museums of stuff.
Not museum stuff, like famous paintings. No, I mean the ordinary, everyday stuff that people spent their whole lives accumulating.
Teacups, old lace, chipped pottery, furniture that probably took three people to move and then sat unused in an attic for fifty years.
Every single shelf and corner was crammed with things that someone, at some point, thought was absolutely essential.
You know how it is. We all do it. We get caught up in the accumulation game. I look around my own house sometimes, and I just shake my head.
I have kitchen gadgets that I bought because they promised to make my life easier, and now they just sit there, judging me from the back of the pantry.
Or Mia, our little Shichon, she has enough squeaky toys to entertain a whole litter of puppies, but she only ever plays with the one that’s missing an eye and is mostly stuffing. We just keep collecting, don’t we?
We gather the things, the material treasures, the stuff of this world. We think, “Oh, I need this. This will complete the look. This will make me happy.”
But then, just across the street from this mountain of lovely, but ultimately disposable, history, there was this beautiful, old Presbyterian church. And it had an ancient cemetery right there on the grounds.
We walked across the road, and the contrast hit me like a ton of bricks. On one side, organized piles of things for sale. On the other, organized rows of names carved into stone, marking the end of the collecting season for everyone buried beneath.
And this wasn’t just any old cemetery, either. I remember standing there, reading the plaque, and getting goosebumps. Right there, in the ground, in a little New Jersey town, is the grave of George Coryell.
This man was a Revolutionary War Lieutenant, a hero who served his country. And get this: he was one of the pallbearers for George Washington. Washington! Right next to him, there was the grave of Sam Holcombe, who was one of General Washington’s spies.
I stood there, looking at that simple stone marking the resting place of a man who carried the literal Father of Our Country to his grave, and then I looked back at the antique shops across the street.
Lieutenant Coryell, the spy Sam Holcombe—these men had lives filled with immense pressure, incredible responsibility, and perhaps even fame in their time.
They were part of history. They had uniforms, maybe fine horses, certainly important documents. They had homes, families, and probably their own collections of things.
But what you realize, standing on that sacred ground, is that none of it came with them. Not the uniform, not the horse, not even the most precious antique.
What he needs is a new perspective, I thought. And what we need is a new perspective.
We spend so much time and energy gathering things that we can’t take with us. We fill our closets and our garages and our bank accounts with things that, the moment we take that final breath, become someone else’s problem.
They become inventory in an antique store, waiting for the next person to buy them and then eventually pass them on again.
It makes me think of that story Jesus told, the one about the rich fool who kept building bigger barns to store his crops.
He was so focused on his earthly collection, and God said to him, “Fool! This night your soul is required of you, and the things you have prepared, whose will they be?” Simple. And kind of terrifying, if you really think about it.
What are we collecting? That’s the real question.
I’m not saying we should all become monks and give away everything.
But I am saying that we need to be more intentional about our spiritual collection. Because that is the only inventory that survives the trip across the road.
The irony is that the things Coryell and Holcombe did carry with them—their courage, their service, their commitment to something bigger than themselves—those were the true treasures. Those are the things that still inspire us two hundred years later.
I want my life to be a testament to the things I collected on the inside.
I want to collect patience when Michael is being a typical teenager.
I want to collect compassion when I see someone struggling.
I want to collect peace, that quiet assurance that only comes from knowing Jesus.
The things we accumulate on earth are just temporary loaners. The things we collect in our spirit—those are the treasures that are eternal.
So, the next time you’re tempted to buy that fifth kitchen gadget, or you find yourself feeling that pull to keep up with what everyone else has, just remember the graves across the street from the antique shops in Lambertville.
Ask yourself: Am I building up my earthly inventory, or my heavenly one?
Let’s focus on the collection we get to keep. Let’s focus on Jesus. Have a great night.