I know that my real identity and worth are not about what I own or what owns me. Even so, I must admit a real sense of comfort in being surrounded (and if you could see the house right now while we unpack, you'd know how literally I mean surrounded) by my own stuff again. While we are more grateful than words can express to have had places to live while we waited for the sale of a house and the purchase of another, there is nothing like sitting on your own couch or sleeping in your own bed Like most people I know, we have much more stuff than we need. This move, we discarded a lot of things we had been hauling around for years, some which had not been unpacked from the last move nine years ago. Opening a box and discovering books that I'm accustomed to seeing on the shelf or finding mementos from special events down through the years (things that look like junk to some, I know) reminds me of who I am and how I came to be this person.
I'm not altogether sure of where all our stuff is going in this new place. But I'm surely glad to have it with me again. Each piece of it has a story of some sort. I promise not to tell them all. But I am thankful for the stories and for the people behind all that stuff.
The Flood, Then and Now
3 weeks ago