If you peeked inside my overflowing closets, you would wonder why I keep all that stuff. Admittedly, my dear departed brother's things are still in one of them. I gave away his clothes, but other stuff like old family photos have yet to find a new home.
Meanwhile, my flotsam and jetsam jam the others. I rationalize that I still use these items, but do I need them? Probably not.
Last month, someone reminded me to clean the detritus out of my house before I was gone. How did I feel about that statement? Hurt. What did I think? Yep, they're right. I need to get rid of some stuff, but not just yet. After all, if I did, wouldn’t that be acknowledging my days are drawing to a close? I’m not ready for that, yet. I’ve still got things to do, books to write, and a life to live hopefully for the glory of God.
Recently, I found myself pondering how to pare down my stuff. Donate it? Yard sale? Trash bin? Ah, but the memories attached to certain items cause me to shift them back onto the shelf. It seems almost traitorous to dispose of them. How can I when a dear person gave them to me? Even though the person is long gone to glory, or maybe because the person is gone, I still find it tough to part with the item. It’s as if by parting with the gift, I would be saying goodbye, again.
Then there’s the things I inherited from my parents, things they hoarded, like my mother’s ceramic angel figurines . . . made in the orient . . . worthless, but oh so priceless to me because they remind me of her. And Dad’s paintings appraised at lower in value than their frames, but they were painted by him. How can I part with them? It’s like parting with him all over again.
So what am I to do with all this stuff? I think I’ll just let my daughters and son have the joy of dealing with it. Then I won’t have to feel guilty when it all ends up in the dumpster, or yard sale, or wherever. That will be their worry.