Monthly Archives: August 2016

Rocking back on my heels, I knelt beside the flowerbed under the front window of my little house and stared up at the azure sky arcing overhead.  Silently I marveled how such beauty could belie the reality of the hot-as-Hades day.  With my forearm I swiped at the beads of moisture that were quickly becoming rivulets streaming into my eyes.  Briefly I wondered if later looking in the mirror I’d discover a stipe of black dirt left behind as a souvenir of that swipe (Yes.).

I sighed and turned my attention back to the seemingly endless supply of weeds choking the purposely-planted shrubs in what had once been a lovingly and neatly tended border.  With a sense of inevitability, I leaned forward and again started ripping out those stubborn interlopers by their aggressively gripping roots.  One after another, methodically I removed the invaders and tossed them into the gaping mouth of the waiting black garbage bag.

One thing about yard work, it takes no focus whatsoever; so, I let my mind wander freely:  Was it time to get my own (hair) roots done (Probably.)?  Would anyone notice if I suddenly became a brunette (Yes.)? I hate getting my hair done; should I shave it all off (Uhhm, no.)?

Then, as often wont to do, my mind meandered in a more, well, substantial direction. (And you thought you were going to read about my hair.)   Now, stay with me here.  Flowerbeds are similar to our hearts in that what we plant only grows if we make sure it gets the sustenance it needs.  If we leave our little plots untended maybe things we never expected, definitely never wanted, begin to encroach; weeds, those nasty little desperados, begin to destroy what we deliberately, lovingly sowed.  Maybe it’s our deepest relationships that get blotted out by the thorny thistles that crept into place, or maybe it’s our self-esteem, perhaps it’s our walk with God, but whatever it is in our inner-most being, it needs to be cherished and tended.

In my life, I’m most likely to let weeds strangle the hard-learned truths I’ve discovered about myself.  Unfortunately, I’m willing to let the harsh, cold, nasty things others say (or I let myself believe they think) supplant those truths I should know absolutely by now (but don’t).  Once those truths have been beaten down, it takes months or even years to see them flower again.

Maybe you don’t struggle with any of this.  Maybe your gardens are tended perfectly, and you think I have completely lost it.  Maybe you’re thinking, weeds – what is she talking about? If you can’t relate, I’m glad for you, but if you can relate, then let’s agree to get out the Roundup soak those weeds. (Well, not me; I’m going to have to do it the hard way – Roundup gives me a migraine.  You probably already know this, but I pretty much do everything the hard way.)  But, please, you use the Roundup.  Let’s get rid of those weeds and tend to and cherish what needs to be cherished.

In my Phoenix living room almost 7 months ago, I sat curled into the corner of my sofa watching my father intensely and systematically wrap each and every item acquired during my former fractured lives in layers of bubble wrap and packing paper and set those pieces gently into boxes – oh, so many, many boxes.  He then taped those boxes shut with multiple overlapping (think OCD) strips of tape.  Once the packing was completed, those boxes were entrusted to the bailment of a major moving company until I landed again.

The very last week in July, I threw open a new front door to greet the moving truck and a new adventure, and an adventure that moving day proved to be.  Shortly after the two gentlemen arrived, they disappeared out the front door again and stayed gone for a measurable amount of time.  Finally, the older of the two walked hesitantly back into the house and approached me sheepishly asking me to accompany him outside to the truck; he needed to show me something.

The side doors of the truck stood open, and boxes were on display – crushed, smashed boxes; boxes with seams ripped open, contents cascading out; boxes mangled and eviscerated.  Both movers stood silently, waiting for my reaction.  I swallowed and stared.  Then I said simply, “Well, bring it in.”

The men gaped at me.  One said, “A lady yesterday cried over one box.  You’re not going to yell?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Well, it’s your stuff.  We’ve never seen anything this bad.  The truck was loaded wrong.”

I assessed the truck again and then the movers.  I shook my head ‘no,’ and repeated the request to bring the boxes into the house.  Then, I returned to my kitchen.

Standing at the counter I thought about those destroyed boxes and the potential consequences to what they contained.  As I stood pensively waiting, the movers began toting those cardboard wrecks into the house.  They watched me out of the corners of their eyes.  I could feel them trying to determine how close I was to losing it, but I was so far away from that point.  I was simply trying to grasp how I would feel if everything in every one of those boxes were shattered beyond recognition, beyond repair.

Enormous bright red “Fragile” stickers were slapped on all 6 sides of the third box carried past me.   “Stained Glass Lamp Shades” written in gigantic letters under those red stickers underscored the delicate contents of that box, and the irony of those red stickers proved too much for my slightly odd sense of humor.  My laughter couldn’t be restrained, and once I started laughing, the two movers couldn’t help but join.  “It’s just stuff,” I gasped to them.  “It’s just stuff.”

Here’s the thing: it is just stuff.  It can be replaced.  Some of those things have memories Gorilla Glued to them – good, bad, or even neutral memories, but the memories wouldn’t shatter even if the objects did.  Those memories are mine to do with what I will regardless of what happens to the stuff.  Would I want to have to deal with replacing my things?  No, of course not; I’m not reckless, unreasonably careless, or insane (If you know me, don’t comment.).  But ultimately, crying over anything that can’t cry over you feels like a waste of emotional energy and also, in our world, seems quite a skewed perception of what is important.  There was a time in my life I would’ve cried.  I’m not that woman anymore, and I’m grateful for that.

Sometimes it’s hard to hold onto the concept that I truly am different in Him.  Sometimes it takes a truck full of crushed moving boxes to remind me of how far He has brought me.  So, tonight I want to tell you that I’m thankful for crushed cardboard and punctured packages.  I want to tell you I am thankful for all that He has brought me through and all He will continue to lead me to do.  In Him.