What a weird, weird week it has been.

I mean, yes, sure, obviously. Things are very weird all around the globe. Things are even weirder here at home, what with the nominee for attorney general being a man facing multiple charges himself. Dark ones.

Midcoast resident Heather D. Martin wants to know what’s on your mind; email her at heather@heatherdmartin.com.

But none of that is what I mean. I am referring to stuff on a smaller scale.

This week, The Move shifted gears.

For those of you new to this particular conversation, my mom passed away this summer and, in keeping with her wish that the family home stay in the family, we are in the middle of moving.

Moving is never fun. The boxes, the lifting, the not knowing where anything is when you need it. Not fun.

This move feels particularly “extra.” In addition to moving our stuff in, we have to move my parents’ things out. This is not only a lot of time and lifting … it is a lot of emotion.

Every item I have to pack up comes with a lot of memories and nostalgia. Unsurprisingly, it can get a little sad. Sometimes, though, it gets downright amusing. For example, the hymnals.

Folks, I have just moved a lot of hymnals. Forty-one to be exact. Plus 17 hymn pamphlets, plus one intriguing book titled, “The Stories of Great Hymn Writers” by Ivan H. Hagedorn. I’m not kidding. That book exists. I think we can all agree – 41 is an excessive amount of hymnals.

For some context: Mom was a minister. My father was as well, but that’s not the point right now.

Mom was raised as Baptist, though she was ordained through the United Church of Christ. The congregations of the churches where she served were federated, with an equal mix of Unitarian and Congregational attending. So it was not that surprising that the hymnals were from all over the Protestant spectrum.

The fact that there are so many of them is down to the fact that she was also thorough, and thoughtful. She took pride in thinking through what she wanted to say and to find the right hymns to accompany. It was important to her. It mattered. I knew this about Mom, so I wasn’t surprised to find a collection of hymnals in her room – even if the exact count was more than anticipated.

What was surprising was the collection on the next bookcase over. There, beside a Bible (OK, several, all in different versions or interpretations), was a copy of the Quran. Beside that? The Talmud. Then the Book of Mormon, followed by a respectful and thoughtful description of the sacred texts from the Middle East, works on Buddhism… and on and on.

I need to emphasize, these books were not there “for show.” They were there to be read. Read, and consulted. Not because Mom questioned her own faith, but because she carried with her an equal respect for the faiths of others, along with a genuine curiosity and desire to understand others.

Well, I say it was surprising. That’s not strictly accurate.

I admit, the sheer volume of the collection caught me off guard, but not the mindset behind it. I knew this about my mom. After all, this was the same woman who (along with my dad) attended a weekly “crumb crusher” – aka, a coffee and baked goods get-together – with the local rabbi, the local priest, and the leaders of other churches.

As a kid, I was often brought along. I didn’t really pay as much attention as I wish I had, but I remember the laughter. There was a lot of laughter.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot this week. What a lucky kid I was to have had such an example of, not “tolerance” – which implies a sort of “putting up with” – but genuine delight in the differences of others; a genuine curiosity about cultures outside of their own.

I am going to do my best to live up to their example and remain curious about the life that surrounds me.