There was an old antique Parisian bookstore in the Quartier Latin that I passed by every morning and every evening when I used to live there.

The store was probably only large enough to place a door, and then the remaining space was just books stacked high to the ceiling. The books were haphazardly stacked and toppling, with bent pages, and weathered creased spines. There were books that had lost their covers, and books that had frayed. Some that were pristine and leather bound, seemingly unexplored. I’m not even sure these books were for sale, or if it was just someone’s entire life collection, but something made me pause that day, and take this photograph.

I have always loved old things. Maybe it’s because before, “things” were made with purpose, intention, and care. “Things” began in a person’s mind, perhaps even their dreams, and they found their way into creation, over generations of careful teaching, learning, and creating. “Things” were touched and molded by real hands, whose muscles had long memorized the process of its creation.

Now, our “things” find their way into junkyards, landfills, and bins a year or two into their creation. We consume, digest, throw away at an alarming rate. “Things” are now only built to last long enough until the next newer, trendier version hits the shelves.

I don’t know if this little shop is still standing, nearly six years later, but it serves as a reminder today that our time on this Earth is brief, and yet it’s enough to make a difference. We cannot take any of our “things” with us, once we’re gone, so let’s not waste away the time we have simply acquiring and consuming.

Let’s relish the simple things, and hold onto the things that matter. Let’s put our screens down and have conversations where we look the other person in the eye. Let’s watch our children play, and give them hugs, and read another bedtime story. Let’s be intentional with our hellos and our goodbyes. Let’s tell the people we love how much we truly appreciate and love them.