Time to Load the Van

And what kind of habitation pleases God? What must our natures be like before He can feel at home with us? He asks nothing but a pure heart and a single mind. He asks no rich paneling, no rugs from the Orient, no art treasures from afar. He desires but sincerity, transparency, humility, and love.

A. W. Tozer

The van clattered down the steep driveway with dishes sliding about within boxes of charity donations. I’ve lost count over the years since our initial downsize how many full vehicles we’ve taken to the charity shops, and I am still astounded we have more to part with. Certainly, packages still arrive in our home over time: home goods, groceries, gifts, and donations (“because you’ve got a big family and could use this”) but the trickle of such has slowed considerably over the years and I’m convinced stuff multiplies on its own overnight.

Perhaps it is the current hunting for house plans and furthering the development of our property, but the fire in my belly for paring down has been hot. It has been fueled by many books I’ve read and very much resonated with, not only on downsizing, but on minimalism. I’m inspired by the lifestyles of people such as Yumiko Sekine, Mark and Sally Bailey, and Steve and Brooke Giannetti. The photographs of rooms that really get my attention are neutral toned in color, full of light and texture and space (even on the shelves). These homes also have carefully curated and/or handmade items, and evoke a sense of peace, retreat, relaxation and simplicity. Those are the kinds of spaces where I can think, pursue interests, relate, pray, and simply Be. Sometimes when I look around at our own stuff, what I sense instead is unnecessary work, burden, upkeep, and guilt.

The useless work for me comes from having too much of anything. It requires more cleaning, dusting, and space to store—which requires ongoing money (which takes more needless work) to pay for that rental or mortgage space it is taking up. The burden comes from obligations to other people to take their things or to keep their gifts. The upkeep is in maintaining repairs or mendings or, dare I say, a visual representation of the kind of person I’d like other people to think I am by what I have and show. And the guilt? The weighty files and files and files of papers, shelves of books, and half-finished projects in bins that I’ll read or need or complete “someday” and all of the “should’s” associated with them.

At the end of the day, sometimes I am exhausted simply by being the presence of so many objects and not enough open space. So, I crawl through the closets, the shelves, the cabinets, the storage bins, asking myself questions such as:

Do I like this (do I even remember I had it)? And if so…why then is it hiding in a closet, storage bin, file cabinet, or the back of a drawer? How can I bring it out to the light and display it or use it or wear it? Can I use that lovely bowl as a flower vase? Or that scarf as a tabletop cloth? Can I frame that photograph and hang it up? Can I bring it into a seasonal rotation into the house or on my body? Do I even want to?

Is this still useful to me? If so…when is the last time I used it? If it went away tomorrow, and I needed it again, would I be willing to purchase it again? Is there anyone else who would love it and use it even today? And, if it’s so useful, why haven’t I worn it, changed the batteries, made the repair, upgraded its system or patched the holes?

Am I keeping this “just in case”? In case of what? If it’s for my children, how emotionally invested am I that they will take, keep, and love this thing? If it’s for an emergency situation, do I know how to use it, cook it, and maintain it? Am I willing to bring it into our normal routines or into my wardrobe rotation? Can I even name half of the items I’ve donated in the past that I originally kept “just in case”?

Is there a “should” associated with keeping this? Is there a sunk cost, a heirloom, or outside pressure to find room in our house and heads for this thing? If this thing were to get stolen or lost in a fire, would I be grieved…or relieved? Am I worried anyone would think my house was too dark, too light, too full, too empty, too fancy, too plain?

Lastly, when I look into a room, how do I feel? Do I feel peaceful? Does my home feel like the retreat I want it to be? Is it a place that allows for curiosity and new learning situations? If not…then I’m not finished downsizing and curating yet.

Does your house match up with how you want to feel? Maybe, unlike me, you want it to feel full and and find energy in that. Maybe you love the rich feel of a library with a dark ceiling and thousands of books because it makes you want to curl up with a cat and a good book. Or maybe you need a bedroom with absolutely nothing but a bed and a pile of wrinkled linens to feel restful. Whatever it is, I find that this is one of the funnest (and most challenging) parts of homemaking: creating a home where values such as sincerity, transparency, humility, and love take a greater stage and importance than whatever objects we have or have not. Remember, your home is supposed to be serving you. If you are instead serving your home, perhaps it’s time to load up the van.

Blessings,