There are two seasons of life: collecting and dispersing. When we get married, bridal shower gifts and wedding presents give us a jump on creating a new home. Then as we travel through the years, we move to bigger digs and eventually add children. Along with them comes a new volume of equipment, and all of it needs space. Children grow, we age, and the pile-up of years can pile up enough possessions to threaten our sanity.

Every once in a while it’s good to take inventory, but most of us are too busy until it’s time to down-size. And suddenly we have a problem.

Because it took four years for our family to sell our big, old house, I had plenty of time to condense our stuff. The first year I set a goal to eliminate 1/3^rd or every drawer, cabinet and closet as preparation for the move.

The second year I did it again, this time stretching for half of everything. Storage began to loosen up, and it felt better than going on a diet and losing weight.

More reducing was necessary to squeeze two houses into one, and now, two years later, I’m at it again. We’ve still got too much furniture in our small home, so I’ve made plans to ditch the largest piece, a big china hutch.

This cabinet has housed my beloved collection of glass items for 25 years, and in order to send it out the front door, I needed to eliminate more than half of what it held.

And it was much harder than I thought.

I struggled to decide what to let go of and needed some standard by which to measure each piece’s value, not in dollars but in sentiment. I decided to get rid of everything that wasn’t linked to someone special.

The process wasn’t easy, but that was an excellent reason to do it. I love my glass, but it was glass-gluttony for sure. No one person needs all I had. Scripture tells us to hold our possessions lightly and continually acknowledge that all of it is God’s blessing. Our stuff finds ownership in him.

Jesus told the story of a man who did so well at accumulating, he had to build bigger buildings to hold it all. The result was an identity in what he owned and an inflated opinion of his own importance. Because of those two things, Jesus labeled him “a fool.”

The Lord challenges us to find our riches in a bond with him. People say, “You can’t take it with you,” which is true of all earthly assets. But we can take the Lord’s relationship with us when we die.

And that’s the one possession I’ll never eliminate.

“Jesus said, “Beware! Guard against every kind of greed. Life is not measured by how much you own. A person is a fool to store up earthly wealth but not have a rich relationship with God.” (Luke 12:15,21)

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)