Strangers Are Talking
I’ve mentioned that I’m moving soon. With that day coming up in about six weeks, I’ve been in full sell-what-we’re-not-taking mode.
Facebook Marketplace is the modern yard sale. Having used it for the last two moves, I’m going with it again to pass along furniture we can’t bring with us.
I’ve listed bedroom furniture, a chair and ottoman, the dining room table, a kids’ trundle bed and shelf, a grill, and a few other things.
And I’ve found buyers for all of it.
The process is both fun and excruciating. If you haven’t done it, you create a listing with photos and name your price. Then you receive what feels like hundreds of thousands of messages asking if it’s still available and whether you’d take less, which makes it feel less worth your time and effort.
What I’ve noticed this time around, though, is how many stories I’m having the privilege of hearing. Strangers are talking.
And I love it.
There’s the woman who wrote, “My ex is taking the TV he gave me Friday when he moves cuz people suck.”
Another mentioned she couldn’t pay more than she offered due to divorce, being a single mom, and just leaving another rough relationship with very little to show for it.
I settled on her price and offered her more items she might be able to use.
One person came to look at the kids’ furniture and put down a deposit. Turns out she takes in foster children, and the bed would be perfect for that. While she was here, she told me a few of her stories about her experiences.
The very first item we listed was a piano. We’d tried to sell it before, so we knew we’d probably have to list it as free. Nobody wants an old piano, especially one that hasn’t been tuned in a while, except to itself. It sounds fine as long as you don’t play it alongside another instrument.
This was hard for my wife. It was the piano that belonged to her sixth-grade teacher. Her favorite teacher. Her family had acquired it from her.
It was originally manufactured in 1958.
The buyer really wanted it. Sight unseen. She saw the pictures and said, “She looks so beautiful.” She was a pianist who couldn’t wait to play it.
After it was moved to her home, she sent a photo of it in its new place and a video of her playing it.
Just this morning, a man came to pick up an item. He arrived at 8:00 a.m., getting off work at Union Terminal in Cincinnati. I asked about his job. Most people know that building for its five wonderful museums and forget it’s still an active train station. He’s a train car inspector. The trains come and go at all hours of the day and night. Hence the third shift.
What a powerful experience it has been to hear people’s stories. Other humans, making their way. We made connections through the simple act of exchanging something I didn’t need for something that filled a need they had.
They offered their stories easily. I usually didn’t even ask.
It reminds me that our stories matter. We matter. We really do have more in common with each other on a human level than we realize. For most of these folks, I never knew who they voted for, what they believed about the state of the world, or what faith they held, if any. Those things matter, of course, in the right place and the right time. But in these moments, we just connected. People shaking hands. Feeling like we were doing something together. Meeting a need.
Sharing our stories.
Here’s what I didn’t expect when I started listing furniture: I wasn’t just clearing out a house. I was making room— for conversations I didn’t know I needed, with people I never would have met otherwise.
We are not as far apart as it looks from a distance. Up close. In driveways and doorways, over a piano bench and a handshake. We are mostly just people who have been through something and kept going.
Maybe that’s the real Marketplace. Not the app. Not the transaction.
Just people, showing up, with something to offer.
That’s worth knowing. That’s worth remembering the next time the world tries to convince you otherwise.