Mid-Week

Boy, I've been flopping with the catchy titles lately -- guess I just don't have the energy for it. Short and sweet is actually rather appropriate, for that's about all I can squeeze out from day to day. It's been one of those weeks that simultaneously drag out and fly by -- know what I mean? Full of activity and responsibility, tackling the world each hour ... yet it's only mid-week.

I spent yesterday afternoon in the cold, unheated attic, once again rearranging our boxed up life. We recently brought back into our possession Don's grandmother's bedroom set, which had been stored at Michelle's parents' guest room for the past two years. They needed to move it out, so we took it back. At first we looked for a home for it, which made Don feel rather sad. He was incredibly close to his grandmother, who died about 10 years ago or so, and while the practical side of him knew we had no need, no room, and no use for the set, the personal side didn't want to let it go. I felt bad for him -- I struggle with these feelings constantly, missing my "things," my belongings, seeing them elsewhere and no longer in my own possession, so I understood these feelings of attachment. Thankfully, I came up with an alternative to not only kept the set, but use it in a practical way as well.

Actually, it was my mom's idea, presented to me after spending some time in the attic getting our Christmas decorations down last month. I noticed that after two years, many of the boxes -- especially the ones filled with heavy books -- were starting to succumb to gravity and beginning to crush. Neatly stacked boxes were now leaning precariously, Pisa-style, and it certainly wouldn't be getting any better. It wasn't good for the books, either. I decided to spend some time up there, rearranging, reboxing -- whatever needed to be done. Besides, many of these crushed boxes held Don's clerical library, books that he needs now -- at least some of them -- as he's starting to dip his toes in the waters of church-work once again. He's preaching more frequently -- granted, admittedly more for the paycheck than a response to a calling, but hey, whose to say God can't work through the back door too. Don needed easier access to his library, so instead of spending two hours rummaging through giant crushed boxes looking for a particular book, how could I make this easier for him?

"Why don't you put some books in our old dresser up there?" my mom suggested. Excellent idea! Their antique chest of drawers stood empty in the attic, and I was able to empty 6 boxes of books into it. Fantastic! Now, what about the other books? Where can I put those contents? Why, in Granny's dresser, of course! It was a multi-pronged solution -- being able to keep the bedroom set to satisfy the emotional realm, while using it as book storage for practical purposes. Voila!

So yesterday I emptied 5 more boxes into the old dresser, frustrated with myself -- in that perfectionist kind of way -- that I couldn't complete the puzzle, that I still had about 3 boxes left. Oh well -- 3 still-sturdy boxes are much better than many crushed ones. I labeled what's left, arranged everything in one part of the attic for easy access, and I feel pretty good about the whole thing. Tired, though -- I think I lifted and hauled and shoved thousands of pounds of boxes. And I'm far from being finished. In order to rearrange Don's new "office library," I had to completely disorganize the rest of our stored goods. It's still a mess up there, there's still a tremendous amount of work to be done.

I laughed a bit at the irony of what I was doing -- for in my efforts to be practical and tidy and efficient, I inadvertently set up a great deal of permanence here. When we were first faced with the need to move two years ago, we had nowhere else to go but here, "home." And in our human way, we never planned to stay. "We'll stay for a year, tops," we thought, "and then we'll look for our own place. A house, maybe." We decided -- oh-so-smartly -- to keep everything neatly boxed in the attic, for when the time came to move, we could just pick them up and transplant them to our own place. Yeah, right. We realized early on there was absolutely no chance of that happening -- not only could we not afford it, but our lives had been turned completely upside down, and we had absolutely no desire or ability to plan for anything. Why bother, when your hopes and dreams can go up in smoke so quickly? So we hunkered down, stayed put ... and we're still here. It's a good thing, don't get me wrong -- a great thing. We are happy here, by all means. But it's been two years with no change ... and now we are finding pseudo-homes for Don's books, tossing the instruments of moving -- the boxes -- establishing even more permanence.

I find myself still struggling with all of this -- with dreams let go, with visions interrupted, with plans unmade. Sometimes -- most of the time -- I'm completely fine and happy; other times I shake my head and wonder what the heck is going on. But the shaking of head and wringing of hands doesn't last too long -- it can't. There's no point in it.

At least now we have some happy books in the attic, free from their dark, crushed boxes, ready for ... what? Who knows what's around the journey's bend ...