Bottles

"You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle; you have recorded each one in your book.” Psalms 56:8

I have approximately 15 bottles in my living room. No, I’m not a wino and I don’t collect oddities preserved in formaldehyde. I have 15 bottles decorating my bookshelves and window sills. They are antiques from a forgotten generation. It is a collection of bottles that was gifted to me by my dad. He collected them throughout his life, most of which came from his time working as a land surveyor in Anchorage, Alaska. They were found in deserted, desolate gold-rush mining communities--a few wooden structures--abandoned with belongings still inside.

When I was a kid, these bottles lined the wall dividing our kitchen and living room. As I got older they disappeared. One day, Dad made an offer. “Hey, I'm getting rid of my bottle collection. You don’t want it, do you?” Yes, was my immediate reply. We knew the bottles had little monetary value since they had been appraised and the rare ones sold. These were the leftovers. So I got ‘em. And they sat in paper sacks in my garage for a year… or two. And I didn’t do anything with them. And, to be honest, I began to question myself for even taking them. What was I going to do with all these old bottles? I couldn't really even remember what they looked like. I considered transforming them in some way, but my heart felt a calling to keep them authentic.

Eventually, one day, motivated half by guilt and half by curiosity, I brought the bags in and started to find homes for them. A little grouping here. A little vignette there. Their raised glass words transcending time and generations. Once useful, filled with elixirs and spices, now polished and gleaming, standing with honor. Gearhardt Eagle chili powder. Green glass. Tan crockery. Teachers' Highland Creme Whiskey. Grolish Lager. Purple glass (which was found in the desert east of Farron, Utah. The purple pigment a chemical reaction of magnesium in the glass, set to bake for untold years in the Utahn sun). Wide mouth crockery. Virginia Dare. Rawleigh's. Dr. W. B. Caldwell's Monticello, Illinois. "Prepared by Dr. Peter Farhney & Sons Co. Chicago, ILL. USA. The reliable old-time preparation for home use". Old Quaker (Federal Law prohibits sale or reuse of this bottle). A green tattoo ink bottle. A blue poison bottle. And my personal favorites, two Japanese sake bottles, thrown overboard by sailors and washed up on the Alaskan shore.

Along with the bottles came something else… Not only did my dad pass along the bottles, but over the years, he has also passed along his memories from his time in the Last Frontier.

Memories of spring mosquitos, so thick they were inadvertently inhaled by members of his work crew. Dousing themselves each morning with “mosquito-dope” and wearing “tin pants” (a thick denim, almost like canvas) were the best lines of defense... After spotting “HELP” written on the bank of the river, he offered aid in the form of a can of bug-dope, to a couple of fishermen, waving fern-fronds near their upturned canoe. Memories of how the crew worked quickly--only four-hours of daylight... He was once in a helicopter crash, seriously!... He sliced his hand open on a machete while using it to locate a survey marker and had to be taken across the harbor to be stitched up... And, of course, memories of the cold. Nostrils freezing together in 30-below temperatures, one corner of his first house pulling away from the foundation as the boards receded in the sub zero temperatures, cars requiring block-heaters to stave off freezing fluids and wet clothes freezing on the clothesline. It was a formidable cold.

Memories and bottles.

I imagine each bottle telling its story of how it ended up in my father's hands. Was it emptied and discarded like trash? Was it lost? Was it forgotten about? Was it left behind? Did it serve its purpose? Did it help someone? Hurt someone? Are the scratches, chips, and cracks signs of misuse? Were they illegal? Contraband? Tossed into the ocean? Left to bake in the desert?

We are bottles.

We carry our memories like these bottles carried their product. Sometimes we are filled. Sometimes we are sucked-dry. Sometimes we are cast aside, forgotten, discarded like trash. We serve our purpose. We help. We hurt. We have dents and bruises and brokenness. But we are still beautiful. We are still worthy of being out on display.

How do we end up in The Father’s hands? It might feel like we’ve been abandoned and deserted. But He will pick us up and cherish us as the priceless child that we are. Each of us is a masterpiece. A one of a kind creation, formed by the hands of a loving father.

My father collected bottles, our Heavenly Father creates them.