I was worried…the family that owned me was getting ready to move, and I wasn’t certain I would make the cut. Sure, I had some scratches and dings, my drawers sagged, and someone had spilled nail polish on my top. Still, even though I was a bit rough around the edges, for a piece of furniture as old as me, I still worked pretty well – I could hold a bunch of clothes (neatly folded or just stuffed in), toys, or pretty much anything you wanted out of sight, out of mind.

It freaked me out a bit when I was pushed to the side of the bedroom, while my other furniture friends were carefully wrapped and then loaded on a truck. After the room was empty, all that was left were a few bags of trash, some old clothes, a tangle of coat hangers…and me.

My mind began to race as I was picked up, banged down the stairs and shoved into the back of the family SUV. My heart sank as I surveyed my fellow travelers – the other junk from my room, a few boxes of books, an old lamp, and a rocking chair with the caning broken out in the seat. This was it I thought…the end of the road…we were headed for the dump.

The car started and we took off. I contemplated what it would be like to be unceremoniously dumped into a pile of trash, then shoved into the earth forever. It made me mad, sad and squeamish all at once.

We drove across town for a while, but oddly enough we passed right by the landfill. Instead we ended up at a place called ReStore. I was unloaded with the lamp, chair and books, where a kind old man looked me over, then carted me to a large room with home furnishings as far as my eyes could see – sofas, chairs, dining sets, lamps, dishes, desks. He placed me in a row of dressers in different shapes and sizes, but none exactly like me. Then he put a sticker on me…$55.

And that is where I stayed for a while. Every day people would come by, open my drawers, look at my scrapes and scratches, shake their heads and move on. Until one day, a young mom and her eight-year-old daughter appeared. The mom’s eyes grew large as she gingerly caressed my scrapes, and carefully opened and shut all of my drawers. She even noticed the loose handle on my upper left drawer.

Before I knew it, I was being carted to the front of the room, and then outside as I was loaded into the back of the young mom’s car. We drove back across town, into a quiet neighborhood and then parked in the driveway of a neat bungalow on a cul-de-sac street. I was unloaded into the garage.

The next day I was awakened by brightness as an overhead light was turned on, and the garage door opened. The mom placed me on top of an old drop cloth, and proceeded to remove all of my drawers and pulls. She then spent the rest of the day sanding away years of neglect, including removing years of paint from my hardware (that was a smelly job). The day ended, the garage door was closed and the overhead light dimmed. I was tired, but felt refreshed as years of age were simply scraped and sanded away.

In the morning, once again the light came on, the door was opened, and I was placed on the old drop cloth. The young mom’s eyes lit up as she carefully opened a can of bright white chalk paint. I shivered as she applied several coats of the paint. After she finished painting, she turned her attention to my pulls, which she spray-painted a pretty satin bronze. She then left me in the garage for the rest of the afternoon.

When the young father arrived home later that day, he helped the young mom reattach my hardware. They then carried me upstairs to their eight-year-old daughter’s room. It was so beautiful. I was carefully placed by her bed, and a cute lamp was placed on my top. Then, the young mom proceeded to fill me with the daughter’s clothes. My emotions were running over as the mom called for the young girl to come and see me. Her face lit up with joy, and she gently rubbed her hands on my fresh new surface. She then turned around and hugged her mom, squealing with joy.

That night, after prayers, I basked in the dim glow of the nightlight, feeling safe, beautiful and loved.

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