Hoarding

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My Dad came home from work the other day and told us all an interesting story. While he was tearing down some property of a deceased woman that lived in the country near town, he and a few other men decided that they would explore the house. He was definitely not expecting what he found.

Glass jars entirely full of golf course pencils

Giant cupboards filled with unopened bottles of spices

Drawers lined with little bottles of taco sauce

A gallon jar filled with unused bars of bath soap

It became very obvious very quickly. This woman was a hoarder. We’ve all seen the TV shows where borderline insane mothers systematically collect useless items, like their children’s old tennis shoes or the previous week’s newspapers, and store them in their house. I’ve even seen an episode of CSI featuring a hoarder. Its become a more and more well known issue. Even the word “hoarders” seems strange, like too many letters are pressed into too small of a space.

Sometimes I think I’m guilty of hoarding. I sometimes refuse to donate old t-shirts because they have sentimental value and rarely get rid of a pair of shoes because I never know when I’ll need to wear them. Yes, I realize that this sounds minuscule compared to drawers full of taco sauce, but still…

Then tonight, when my Dad was retelling this story, I wondered to myself whether it was possible to hoard thoughts…memories…experiences.

Do I cling to past encounters with God? Do I pack them awkwardly into a gallon glass jar and push it into the corner, never to use again? Do I line the hallways of my heart with old stories, so that just in case I may want to retell one, I can walk down and pull it out? Instead of replacing it with this weeks issue, do I stack my memories into teetering towers like those antiquated newspapers?

What’s to stop me from from formulating new thoughts? forging new experiences? finding new memories?

Towering and toppling stacks of old experiences. That’s what.