Jesus, Thrifting, and the Stories That Shaped Me (Photos Included!)

My mom was this beautiful blend of practical, earthy, and quietly whimsical. She believed in homemade bone broths, wild honey, grounding, raw milk, wild berries, and all the herbal teas you can imagine. She had a deep love for the outdoors, and I could tell endless stories about how she wove nature into our childhood. One of my favorites is the day we were bored at home and suddenly saw a sand truck backing up our driveway. They dumped an entire mountain of sand just for us—our very own sandpit. I practically lived in it.

Coming from a nomadic tribe in Kenya, she made it her mission to pass on those rhythms, traditions, and that appreciation for the land. At the same time, she balanced it all with a remarkable sense of order. Every morning, she sat with her diary and her dairy-farm ledger, then met with the farm manager to plan the day’s priorities. I can still hear her voice—calm, steady, and so sure of herself: “The vet will be here at 1 p.m. to check on the two sick cows.”

There was something deeply comforting about her competence. She could sew, cook, and knit—and then turn around and change a tire or pop the hood to fix the car when we were stranded in the middle of nowhere. She knew cars so well that she could diagnose a problem just from the sound of the engine. I’ve watched her confidently challenge mechanics who tried to take advantage when she went alone for repairs. Her blend of skill and fearlessness never failed to amaze me. She even kept a miniature tribal sword tucked under the driver’s seat—her version of a Swiss knife—always prepared, always resourceful.

When she passed away in December 2023, I walked into her room in our family farmhouse and noticed the beautiful sheets she had carefully thrifted a few weeks prior for the new retirement home she’d just built. She had been preparing for a housewarming on December 23rd—the same day we ultimately gathered for her funeral. In my heart, I believe she received an even more wonderful housewarming in her heavenly home.

The sheets were neatly labeled, some with bunnies, others with bears, and some with gentle florals. Mom had even picked out matching dishes. In her diary, she had everything outlined for us to figure out. We didn’t have to piece anything… she practically gave us her manual of what she did and what she planned to do. I turned to my sister and said, “I don’t know how she remained so organized and dedicated. I want to carry this part of her forward with my own children.”

When I got back home in the U.S, I started making space—physically and emotionally. I didn’t know exactly what it would look like, but I knew I wanted excellence, not perfection. I began by decluttering, and honestly, it nearly broke me. I was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of stuff I’d let accumulate. It was what I call “organized chaos”—pretty, color-coded totes, but filled mostly with junk. After that came replacing the doors in my house, then painting, which was actually fun. I even added crown molding to the living room.

But the part I enjoyed most was rediscovering my own sense of style. I was tired of the store-bought, cookie-cutter look and asked myself, What actually feels like home? Immediately, I thought of life on the farm—drinking tea out of Christmas mugs all year long (lol), and gathering around the big farmhouse table with its long bench where the village children (me included) with muddy feet squeezed in for dinner. Nothing in that home was too precious; everything was simply lived in and loved.

Those memories became my guide. I shared my vision with a neighbor, and she said, “You should check out the thrift store up the street. There are real gems there—especially now that so many older folks are moving into nursing homes.”

The first time I went, I was cautious. Then I met an antique dealer who gave me a crash course. “Picking a piece is like picking a boyfriend,” he said. “Take your time. Look for stability—dovetail joints, real wood…” Within fifteen minutes, I felt like a pro. And he was right—it helped.

My first piece was a chest of drawers that completely transformed my master bedroom. After that, the wins kept coming. I bought a coffee table for $100 and later discovered it was worth much more. I’ve found so many treasures since then that I’ve lost count.

And in a way, every piece I bring home feels like a thread back to my mom—her eye for beauty, her practicality, her love for home, and her quiet strength slowly weaving their way into my own life.

It also made me realize something deeper: how similar we are to those thrifted pieces and how Jesus works in us the same way. Thrifted items start out overlooked, worn, or forgotten—yet with a bit of vision, care, and restoration, their value and purpose shine again. In the same tender way, Jesus finds us in our imperfect, mismatched, “lived-in” places and sees what we can become, not just what we are. He restores, repurposes, and brings out the beauty that was always there.

Maybe that’s why thrifting feels spiritual to me. Every rescued piece tells a story—not just of my mom, but of a God who makes all things new.

I hope to do a video at one point to show more of my finds. There are too many to post here.

P.S. I’ve included a few un-styled pieces here. Perhaps I can show you how I styled them, especially my TV console and coffee table!

Hugs,