So my wife came to me with an article about an attempted home burglary near our neighborhood.
Everyone was fine — one of the two guys was caught — but it begged the question:
What’s there to steal?
Furniture?
Have you tried to give a sofa away on Marketplace lately?
You can’t.
You practically have to bribe someone with gas money to take it.
Jewelry?
If anyone has anything worth stealing, it’s hidden away.
You’re not gonna find it breaking into my place.
Electronics?
That stuff’s worthless the moment you buy it.
I’m still making payments on a TV that’s gathering dust in the basement.
Okay — that’s a lie. They give TVs away at the grocery store now.
Who’s out there cruising the black market for a seven-year-old 40-inch TV with no smart features and weighs 87 pounds?
Yeah, steal that — you’d be doing me a favor.
What about art?
The “art” on my walls is sentimental.
A lifetime of shared experiences with my wife.
Street-vendor paintings from Buenos Aires, bought from a guy who didn’t own shoes.
They mean the world to me — but you won’t get more than a shrug at a pawn shop.
Same goes for my son’s Grade 8 graduation photo.
I’m looking around my house right now, and it’s beautiful.
My wife has this gift for making a home — a real one.
Every corner feels intentional.
Every object has a place, a purpose, a bit of love behind it.
You can’t live with a woman like that without adapting.
You can kick your shoes off at the front door — but you’ll get a scolding.
And she’s right.
We’re better than that in the home she’s made for us.
But here’s the truth: none of the stuff we surround ourselves with is actually worth anything.
None of it’s expensive.
It’s trinkets, really.
If my house burned down tomorrow —
and everyone inside was safe, and the dog got out okay —
my wife would cry.
Of course she would.
She loves this house.
It’s her expression, her art form.
But the tears would last ten minutes.
Because when that insurance check arrived,
she’d already be sketching plans for the next one —
new walls, new furniture, new cheap stuff —
all wrapped again in the same warmth, love, and care that made the last one special.
It’s early November, but we’re Canadian,
so Thanksgiving’s long gone and the Christmas decorations are already up.
And as I sit here, I realize the point of all this:
Everything we own is just trash waiting to be thrown away.
It’s not the things that matter.
It’s the love that makes them mean something —
until it’s time to start again.
Awww, what a lovely ending point there 💖 The thieves could really come and steal whatever — it doesn’t really matter, because it’s the love and the people that matter in the end… 💖
And also, so beautiful how you honor your wife and her art. Many men don’t care about that kind of “art,” but to actually acknowledge it as her creative expression is really sweet, I think.
And I even felt for a moment, like, “ooh, I wish I too could have a wife like that,” haha — I’m not gay, and I’m like that kind of girlfriend to my boyfriend, but it sounded so blessed to be surrounded by someone who cares and tends to the house and makes it into a home… I guess that’s the child part of me longing for a mom.
The thought really just started with was what's our stuff really worth?Like really. Nothing we own these days has any real monetary value. I remember having my bike stolen as a kid. That thing was expensive, even for my parents. My kid has 3 bikes he doesn't ride. We are letting go of our stuff as a society. Sure I have a couple nice things but noting I'd lose sleep over.