Purging

I still haven't decided about the disintegrating pine cones and graying stick, shed from some unknown tree. Nor have I decided about the plain, most ordinary rocks.

I've only decided it's no good being the Queen of Stuff. Most people would probably just call me a pack rat. I prefer the royal title; it sounds so much more graceful.

When the majority of my belongings spent a two year sabbath in a storage unit, I admit that I missed some of it. In fact, I missed some of it a lot. But, really, I missed only a very small "some" of it. Most of it, I quite amazingly lived peacefully without.

Last week I informed a friend that we are settling into our new house and "sorting through stuff, getting rid of stuff, and planning a garage sale." He looked rather incredulous when he responded, "Isn't that the normal thing to do when you're moving OUT?"

Uh, yeah.

But when you successfully survive two years without "stuff" it is rather easier to get rid of it afterwards....

So, lately one of my projects has been sorting through stuff, getting rid of stuff, and planning a garage sale. I hope to cut my belongings down to at least half. I made a good start on my clothes, cutting them down after their retrieval from storage by about 75%. About every item I am trying to ask myself, "Do you want to keep this?" If yes, "How are you going to use this?" If a reasonable answer presents itself, "How are you going to store it?"

A lot of "stuff" is going into the trash and I hope my queenly title is slipping away from under my nose. After all, about all those things "I can maybe use someday"--isn't God big enough to provide a replacement for it if I do need it later? There's a big difference, I'm learning, between wise stewardship and a faithless hoarding of stuff you've never used.

Which brings me back to the disintegrating pinecones, aging stick, and oh-so-ordinary rocks. Eleven and a half years ago we moved away from my childhood home. I can still recall the solemn feeling that overswept me as I went out into the yard all by myself and gathered up a few remembrances of my childhood home to save "forever." I planned to show them to my grandchildren someday. "See, this is a pinecone from the very yard of very house where I grew up..." (I didn't quite foresee the natural disintegration process.)

This memorabilia fails my "keep it" test miserably. Although I want to keep it, I have no reasonable reason why. I really have no conceivable use for it. And I'm not sure exactly how to store it.

But...

I haven't decided yet.

Such is the power of sentimentalism.