I have a healthy reverence for the brevity of life.
That’s how I’ve come to explain my tendency to always end up thinking about eternity and what won’t last. Recently, I’ve been drafting up lists and revisions of lists and budget calculations and time frames. I’m moving soon and all the preparations I am internally prone to making bring to mind my own impermanence. Not just because I’m moving into an apartment with a lease that will end or need to be renewed, but also because of the rugs I want that are hundreds of dollars and the gnarly looking $50 wood table that may or may not still be at TJ Maxx when I’m ready to buy it.
At any given moment, I have a lot going on in my brain. I’m weighing the benefits of different approaches to settling in and getting my space all squared away like I envision. And still trying to ruthlessly eliminate hurry and reminding myself that I don’t have anything to prove.
My life does not consist in the abundance of my possessions, or the quality of my belongings, or my ability to achieve a ‘surf shack’ vibe in an Eastern Wake County apartment . . .
I’ve been living out of bags for more than half a decade, so I’m very much excited to finally have a space of my own to unfold into. But I also just keep thinking about the inevitable imperfection of nesting a home in a state that’s both hotter and colder than I’d like for it to be, on a planet with volcanoes, and an intangible bank account that must be managed . . . money that doesn’t appear as effortlessly as the ‘motherlode’ cheat code on The Sims.
I am entirely convinced that Heaven is and will be interesting and glorious and amazing . . . a feast in a Kingdom; the sequel to Eden. And a feast would need linens and craftsmanship and cuisine; a Kingdom would have nature and buildings and interior designs . . .
I think about the way God made us – with so much creativity and potential and skill. And I think about the rugs I like and how the good ones probably are worth the hundreds of dollars they go for, and what it must be like to have life in a place without shadows or decay . . . Somewhere that is perfectly suited for the flawless expression of who we were always meant to be . . . how we were always meant to live.
I’ve curated and purged so many aesthetics in all of my moving and wandering around, but it still seems so easy to get attached to things. I feel the greed rise up around my ankles as I stand in the isles of bright-lit box-stores making re-calcuations of all the same numbers and trying to decide if and when to buy. But I don’t want to just be a consumer.
I like nice things that work well and last long and look pretty performing their functions. What I’m really looking for is permanence and perfection. What I have to work with is various levels of temporary . . . right down to the skin I live in.
God gives good gifts down here. In between rain storms and even in the midst of them; He gives richly all things to enjoy. He doesn’t give us all things to cling to or hope in or boast about, but all things richly to enjoy. For however long our eyes get to look at them; and however long they last.
So that’s the angst I’m wading through and determining to master. I want to enjoy the process of curating beautiful things to meet my needs without the suffocation of needing the things, and with the remembrance of what is most important . . . of losing to gain and focusing on the tasks I have at hand. And – ultimately – creating space in my heart and in my life for God to bless me with what He knows my heart desires, instead of fixating on grabbing for myself as if there is no God at all.
I’m excited to share how the new digs shape up, and hopefully highlight some lovely little temporary trinkets I’ve been given to enjoy.
. . . & & | happy nesting!!
And [Jesus] said to them, “Take care, and be on your guard against all covetousness, for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions.”