We tried to get rid of it.

One sunny Saturday morning, we hauled the cement garden statue of a woman onto the front lawn with a collection of other unwanted items, in preparation for a neighborhood yard sale.

Moments before the early shoppers began to arrive, a little voice asked, “You’re not getting rid of Sarah, are you?”

I turned to see my four-year-old daughter clinging to the statue, which apparently she’d named Sarah.

“You can’t sell Sarah, Mommy. She’s my friend!”

My husband emerged from the garage to see her nuzzling the statue and whispering comforting words into its cold, sculpted ear.

“That’s Sarah,” I explained. “We can’t get rid of her.”

“Because she’s my friend, Daddy!”

He placed an armload of boxes onto the grass, shrugged, and hauled Sarah back into the garage.

And just like that, Sarah found her new home, pushed up against the garage wall, safely nestled between a step ladder and a bag of insulation.

In the months following her rescue, Sarah transformed from an unwanted piece of junk into an honorary member of the family. All was well. Until the day when, as my daughter watched and waved, the passenger-side mirror of my husband’s car knocked into Sarah while he backed out of the garage on his way to work.

Sarah wobbled and crashed to the floor with a sickening clang, breaking into several pieces.

My sweet girl burst into tears and ran to her shattered friend’s side. She dropped to her knees with a wail. “I loved Sarah, but I can’t love her anymore because she’s too broken!”

It occurred to me that this might be a good opportunity to teach her not to love the things of this world. And yet, there was something more pressing I needed to tell her. Something more important.

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