A dear friend of mine and I have been talking much about excess these past months. We discuss Americans' dependence on stuff while people like those in Ethiopia and Haiti seem so happy with so little.
Then I go out and buy a new pair of Asics because my soles are just starting to show wear. Some people we know take us out to eat, and I order an 8 ounce filet mignon, which costs $33, and that's with no side dishes included. My daughter requests $30 for a class car, and I refuse. (Who in their right mind would spend money on a car just to destroy it, anyway?) And then I buy another $20 book to devour in two days. I am ridiculously fickle.
I vacillate between cutting coupons (which I do occasionally, but rarely use) and insisting that buying quality is, in the long run, more frugal than buying something cheap that will need to be replaced in a few months.
This really must be an American disease.
Above-mentioned friend suggests I join her in reading the book 7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess by Jen Hatmaker. Written as a daily journal, Hatmaker in month one chooses seven foods that she will eat...and that is all. On one hand, I think the woman is crazy; on the other, I admire her guts to act on her convictions.
That's what stops me in my tracks on page 34. If I keep reading, will I feel convicted to do likewise? Will I have to get rid of my stuff, my stuff that I dust around, complain about, yet desperately cling to? So I put the book down and walk up to my bathroom and notice my makeup drawer hanging open. Friends, this is my makeup, and I don't even like wearing it. Embarrassed, I realize that I would struggle just to limit myself to seven items even here.
Don't get me wrong. I am a purger. Not in a bulimic sort of way, but with stuff. I like to make trips to consignment shops and Goodwill. I love the feeling of dropping items off, either wondering about the couple of dollars I'll recoup or celebrating my...um...generosity in giving people the stuff I don't want anyway. The trouble is that much of it I need to quit buying in the first place.
Recently I came across this post on Twitter and saved it just because it irritated me: "I have an everyday religion that works for me. Love yourself first, and everything else falls into line." The woman who said this, Lucille Ball, cracks me up when I watch her old shows. She may have said it in jest, or she may not have. What scares the bejeebers out of me is the truth of it, that someone will look at my life and see my excesses as my religion.
I want my kids and you to know that my hope and future lies in Jesus Christ, not in our farm or in my clothes or in my car or in my vacations. In Jesus Christ.
So yeah—I'm a little afraid to move on to page 35, but I'm picking up where I left off because this obviously needs to be on my list of self-improvement projects. And while I don't think I will be moving to a minimalist house anytime soon, I do need to work on giving up, letting go, and reminding myself that He alone is more than enough.
Then I go out and buy a new pair of Asics because my soles are just starting to show wear. Some people we know take us out to eat, and I order an 8 ounce filet mignon, which costs $33, and that's with no side dishes included. My daughter requests $30 for a class car, and I refuse. (Who in their right mind would spend money on a car just to destroy it, anyway?) And then I buy another $20 book to devour in two days. I am ridiculously fickle.
I vacillate between cutting coupons (which I do occasionally, but rarely use) and insisting that buying quality is, in the long run, more frugal than buying something cheap that will need to be replaced in a few months.
This really must be an American disease.
Above-mentioned friend suggests I join her in reading the book 7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess by Jen Hatmaker. Written as a daily journal, Hatmaker in month one chooses seven foods that she will eat...and that is all. On one hand, I think the woman is crazy; on the other, I admire her guts to act on her convictions.
That's what stops me in my tracks on page 34. If I keep reading, will I feel convicted to do likewise? Will I have to get rid of my stuff, my stuff that I dust around, complain about, yet desperately cling to? So I put the book down and walk up to my bathroom and notice my makeup drawer hanging open. Friends, this is my makeup, and I don't even like wearing it. Embarrassed, I realize that I would struggle just to limit myself to seven items even here.Don't get me wrong. I am a purger. Not in a bulimic sort of way, but with stuff. I like to make trips to consignment shops and Goodwill. I love the feeling of dropping items off, either wondering about the couple of dollars I'll recoup or celebrating my...um...generosity in giving people the stuff I don't want anyway. The trouble is that much of it I need to quit buying in the first place.
Recently I came across this post on Twitter and saved it just because it irritated me: "I have an everyday religion that works for me. Love yourself first, and everything else falls into line." The woman who said this, Lucille Ball, cracks me up when I watch her old shows. She may have said it in jest, or she may not have. What scares the bejeebers out of me is the truth of it, that someone will look at my life and see my excesses as my religion.
I want my kids and you to know that my hope and future lies in Jesus Christ, not in our farm or in my clothes or in my car or in my vacations. In Jesus Christ.
So yeah—I'm a little afraid to move on to page 35, but I'm picking up where I left off because this obviously needs to be on my list of self-improvement projects. And while I don't think I will be moving to a minimalist house anytime soon, I do need to work on giving up, letting go, and reminding myself that He alone is more than enough.
