You Can't Take It With You

“You can't take it with you!” said the spendthrift as he greedily eyed the miser's bulging wallet.

“No, I cannot,” responded the miser, “but neither can you.”

“You can't take it with you” took on new meaning for me when I pressed the send button that transmitted my application, activating the first phase of my Peace Corps journey. I looked around my home office at the file cabinets, desktop computer, space-hogging peripherals, furniture and overstuffed bookshelves and I said to myself, “You cannot take it with you.”

Although I have had a tendency to purge my household goods regularly, I was suddenly aware of the urgent need to cut a little deeper. Thanks to Craigslist, many kind strangers were happy to pay me for the privilege of removing some of my burden.

I must admit, parting with my furniture was hard. Not because it was incredibly rare or valuable. Not because of any emotional attachment. But because, deep down, I was afraid of never being able to replace it again.

I am taking a huge risk by committing to two years of service overseas. I am taking myself out of the game and trusting that when the time comes, somehow, I will get back in.

My soul still grieves over the two lengthy seasons of unemployment in my not-too-distant past and the devastating losses attached to each. So it is quite natural that I would experience trepidation in letting go of my household goods under the premise that gainful employment will greet me when I return to the U.S. In 2011.

With my departure date looming and the Peace Corps debt-free requirement taunting, I continually revisit the Rubbermaids in my sister Rita's basement, each visit prompting yet another challenge:

• Do I keep the stuff and trust God to supply the finances?
• Or do I sell the stuff and trust God to give me more stuff in two years?

The pain of professional, financial, and relational loss is very real and the fear of a recurrence was clouding my thinking. So when I asked God what I should do, He led me to the Old Testament and made me a promise, “I will restore (your) fallen tent. I will repair (your) broken places, restore (your) ruins, and build (you) as (you) used to be” (Amos 9:11).

Yesterday, Rita and I had a garage sale, the second since I've been in Michigan. We had a good time and made a nice profit. But the greatest gain for each of us has been a detachment from the stuff that pretends to give comfort but in reality just restrains.

No, I cannot take it with me. But I can trust that something better awaits me.

Grace & Peace,

Anita