I lugged the heavy bins down the attic stairs, one at a time. Once I got them into the bedroom, I carefully opened the lids and peered inside. Mounds of clothes stared back at me. They were all shapes, colours and sizes.
There were clothes from when I was at my thinnest just over a year ago. There were clothes from when I was a more average weight. There were bigger clothes from various stages of kidney treatment.
Some of the items were brand new and still had tags on them. Other items, believe it or not, were almost 20 years old.
Four and a half giant bins of clothes.
I had been holding on to most of them for years, taking them out and packing them away again as my size fluctuated. Every now and then, I’d sort through the clothes, but I was never quite able to get rid of them.
What if you have another kidney disease relapse? I’d ask myself. You’ll need the varying sizes to accommodate the weight fluctuation. Or what if you lose weight and can’t afford new clothes? You better hang on to these just in case.
Fear. Fear of sickness. Fear of lack. It all boils down to fear.
And then there is one item that represents even more. I came across it today, its brown sheen peeking out from beneath a pile. I bought it with so much hope and expectation. Today, I found it buried at the bottom of a bin, limp, a symbol of disappointment and heartache.
God doesn’t call us to a life of fear. He doesn’t call us to a life of brokenness. He calls us to a life of fullness and wholeness.
So it’s time to move on and let go. It’s time to start over.
I’m down to one bin of clothes now, consisting of my portaging clothes and some key wardrobe pieces that I love. Everything else that isn’t damaged will be donated, given away or swapped.
Except for that one item. I threw that one in the garbage. Pushed it way down to the bottom.
It felt good. Very good.
Sometimes freedom can be found in the strangest places.