Moving 101

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.