The sad truth is, I’m attached to my stuff. I’m especially bound to pictures, journals and anything marked “memorabilia.” If I was younger, this wouldn’t be a problem, but because I’ve accumulated 65 years of mementos, I’m continually battling a storage predicament.

Three years ago as we contemplated a move, I was determined to eliminate at least one-third of everything we owned. One cold night in our garage, I sat on a short stool facing four loaded file cabinets, an eight-drawer challenge.

Pulling a giant garbage can next to me, I opened drawer #1, a row of alphabetized manila folders three feet deep. It was easy to toss out papers referring to cars we no longer owned or pet info about dogs long-gone. And it was clear I should keep health records, insurance policies and the passport file. But many of the folders shouted, “I’m memorabilia! Keep me!”

Passing up one folder after another, I knew I had to get ruthless. More files needed to go. Then I came to a bulging folder that took up 5” of drawer space. Its tab said, “Nate’s notes.”

Nate had been faithful to pen weekly notes to our older children on 3 x 5 cards, summarizing family news and offering encouragement. It was his way to stay connected when they were far from home, and the kids have kept most of their notes. But they weren’t the only ones getting cards.

He was an early riser, usually before 5:00 am, and I slept till 6:00. Often he left for work before I made my way to the coffee pot, and I’d find a note propped there for me:

“Remember to pick me up at the train, 6:37 — car is in the shop.”
“I love coffee, and I love you.”
“11 degrees – Do you know the whereabouts of my gloves?”

Each card was dated, and all were signed, “Love, Nate.”

That night in the garage, I lifted the overstuffed folder from its place and debated what to do. The space it took in the file cabinet would house a dozen other important folders, and I knew I should be ruthless.

Nate was in good health then, no sore back and no cancer. More notes would be written, I figured, probably many years-worth. Soon I’d have another 5” file filled with his meaningful words.

And in one swift move, I threw them all away.

Three years later, we learned Nate was terminally ill, and my mind traveled back to that night in front of the files. Realizing I would never receive another note made me ache to undo my mistake. Oh how I’d treasure those cards now!

So here I am today, in the basement with another garbage can at my side. What do I keep? What do I toss? I no longer trust my judgment. When I asked the Lord what to think, he brought Nate’s death scene to my mind. The sum total of what mattered then had nothing to do with pen and ink or any other earthly possession. It came down to Nate and God. And after those last breaths, the only “things” that mattered were the ones he’d stored in heaven.

I believe the Lord was telling me to let the notes (and my bad decision) go. He was reminding me that one day it’ll come down to just God and me, and on that day, nothing in my basement will matter at all.

“Store your treasures in heaven, where moths and rust cannot destroy, and thieves do not break in and steal.” (Matthew 6:20)

The basement has gotten out of hand again. Although it was a picture of perfect order last winter, during our chaotic year, it became everyone’s catch-all.

Last week Nelson built some custom shelves to organize one category of chaos: paint cans and paint clothes, brushes and turpentine, rollers and roller pans, scrapers and cutting tools, drop cloths and rags. After watching disorder give way to order,  I was eager to tackle other areas of basement chaos.

The giant shelves Nelson built last year have become overloaded and messy, although I can’t take full blame. When Louisa and Birgitta left their Chicago apartment to pursue studies in Hawaii and Iowa, all their possessions came to our basement. Then, after Nelson emptied his storage facility in Tennessee, that truck load of stuff also came toward Michigan but didn’t get past our driveway.

He assessed the basement with its narrow aisles winding between stacks of debris, and together we decided a small storage unit was the answer, at least for now. We gathered everything we wouldn’t need to see or touch for a year, as well as everything from Chicago and Nashville, and hauled it to the storage facility. How nice to see the basement floor again.

If I had to choose one word as a banner over my last five years it would be “packing.” And of course where there’s packing, there’s unpacking. The truth about the basement is that most of it belongs to me. Boxes and bins have been my constant companions, but I’m learning to ask, “How much of this should I save?”

I grew up under the influence of a Depression Era mother who kept a box marked, “Bits of string too short to save.” She once told me, “I could live off your garbage.”

Mom also collected the water from her wash machine and reused it to wash floors. She’d defend herself by saying, “During the Depression we couldn’t afford soap and had to make our own. This soapy water shouldn’t be wasted.”

She’d tell visitors, “If I find one pea on the floor, I make pea soup.” They thought she was kidding.

Although Mom had endless ways to save money, her Depression-logic moved her to save everything else, too. She was sure our shoes from 7^th grade would be back in fashion soon. The plastic lid from a gallon of ice cream could be used as a Frisbee. Pencils could still write, even if they were too short to hold. Old rubber bands made wonderful dental floss.

Where’s the line between sensible and silly? I asked myself that question thousands of times as we downsized our old house and eliminated half of everything. After the move, we eliminated half again, and now the basement. Give away? Put away? Throw away? Handling and categorizing each item is exhausting.

So here we are again, having rented another storage unit, sorted through more stuff, filled more bins and relocated heaps of possessions. I know my kids’ things won’t stay long, and those aren’t what concern me. Instead, I’m looking critically at my own stockpiles. What’s worth keeping? What’s not?

As always, our practical Bible has the answer.

“Don’t store up treasures here on earth where moths eat them and rust destroys them and where thieves break in and steal.” (Matthew 6:19)