I Bought It All

2,465 square feet.

Four bedrooms.

Two living rooms.

Two and a half bathrooms.

Nine closets.

Twenty-six cabinets.

Three bookshelves.

Ten dressers and armoires.

Every last one of them packed full. I invented an engineering trick to get them closed that I should patent. Some cabinets are stacked so high I have to remove forty pounds of stuff before I can retrieve the bottom dwellers. I don’t even know what’s in some of them.

About three times a year, I rant around the house, screaming at our stuff: “What is all this? How did this get here? Why do we have so much junk? How am I supposed to keep up with all this? Where did this all come from?” And then I remember:

I bought it all.

I suppose acting like someone snuck into my house while I was feeding the homeless and filled my shelves with more black shirts and a fourth set of Legos against my will is probably ignoble. To hear me fuss, you’d think I was a victim of drive-by consumerism. Guess what, doves?

I’m a part of this little game.

I see it (on you, on them, in their house, at Target, on TV). I manu­facture a need for it. Then I buy it. I use it a little or not. I store it/shelve it/stack it/stuff it/get tired of it, then wage war against it one day when all my little things are strewn about as escapees from their shelves and drawers.

I could blame Big Marketing for selling me imagined needs. I could point a finger at culture for peer pressuring me into having nicer things. I might implicate modern parenting, which encourages endless purchases for the kids, ensuring they aren’t the “have-nots” in a sea of “haves.” I could just dismiss it all with a shrug and casual wave of the hand. Oh, you know me! Retail therapy!

But if I’m being truthful, this is a sickening cycle of consumerism that I perpetuate constantly. I used to pardon excess from the tension of the gospel by saying, “Oh, it doesn’t matter how much you have; it’s what you do with it.” But that exemption is folding in on itself lately. Plus, let’s be honest: what does “it’s what you do with it” even mean? Are we really doing something honorable with our stuff other than consuming it? I’m not sure carting it all off after we’re bored with those particular items is a helpful response since we just replace it with more.

Anyhow, I’m getting ahead of myself. So here’s the word of the day: giddy. That’s how I feel about this month. I originally planned on doing this as the fourth month, but I moved it up after the realizations from the last month horrified me. I am starving for reform. Here is the deal:

• One month.

• Give seven things away that we own.

• Every day.

Yes, I’ve done the math; 210 items out the door. This is a whole fam­ily project, and there won’t be a drawer left untouched. I predict the first half of the month will be a cakewalk. I’m a purger by nature; ask anyone. Everything goes. When my friends keep sentimental baby clothes and old newspapers, I threaten to call “Hoarders” on them. Clutter stresses me out. I like clean counters and labels. I’ll gladly purge the first round of stuff.

It’s the second round I’m guessing will pinch. When the obvious things are gone and things move into the sacrificial zone, let’s see what a peppy cheerleader I am. (My friends have gently skirted my treasures: “So, um, what about your books, Jen?” Back off or you’re dead to me.)

This month will be executed with The Council and other participat­ing friends. Some will be generic donations, and others will be specific; I’m looking for the perfect recipient. Donating everything through a third party removes the relational magic when one human connects with another. Donating to Goodwill is fine, but I read the following quote three years ago, and it changed my life:

“I had come to see that the great tragedy in the church is not that rich Christians do not care about the poor but that rich Christians do not know the poor. . . . I long for the Calcutta slums to meet the Chicago suburbs, for lepers to meet landowners and for each to see God’s image in the other. . . . I truly believe that when the poor meet the rich, riches will have no meaning. And when the rich meet the poor, we will see poverty come to an end.”1 (Thank you, Shane Claiborne, for messing me up.)

So off we go. Seven things a day. Clearly missing the point, my friends asked to paw through my giveaways in case they want something before it gets to the poor. Nice. This reminds me of Caleb who asks every single time we feed the homeless if he can have a burger. One night when I refused, he mumbled: “The homeless get everything.”

Well, this month they certainly will.

Day 1

I wanted for this first entry to be charming and hilarious like the others have been (and clearly humble). I thought I’d share a cute anecdote or let my freak flag fly, easing into Month Three, warming up for this monstrous giveaway. But here is what happened:

I cleaned out my closet and I am sick.

Sick to death.

I couldn’t even count the items or get them organized. They are piled on my closet floor and spilling into my bedroom as we speak. I had to walk away and breathe and sort through my emotions, which are churning too fast to keep up with. So many issues surfaced, I don’t know where to begin. They’re all screaming, “Pick me! Pick me!”

Okay, here’s one: I grossly underestimated how much I’ve spent on clothes. I pulled out clothes I haven’t worn in three years: Limited, Express, BCBG Max Azria, Seven (hello irony), Banana Republic, Cache, Nordstroms, Lucky, Steve Madden. These did not average $10 each, dear reader. And because I buy at the eleventh hour, moments before I need them, I mostly paid full price. No time for frugality when you’re panic shopping.

Here’s another reality check: I counted around forty items I’ve worn fewer than five times; four with tags on, never even worn. I might as well have sautéed that money in olive oil and eaten it. I think this bothered me most. Forty items barely worn. How indulgent and irresponsible and waste­ful. Careless, that’s the word. If I bought something that didn’t warrant more than three wearings, I did not need it. That is thoughtless, default consumerism: see it, like it, buy it.

Cleaning out clothes that represented “my last life” kept me on a low simmer the whole morning. This was the bulk of all I purged, and I felt sad. These were beautiful clothes from another time, what I wore before we started Austin New Church—gorgeous, expensive clothes from a gorgeous, expensive season.

I don’t know why I felt so sad. Maybe because these are the last remind­ers of a formative time. I wore these the first time I taught women, the first time I spoke, the first time I had a book signing, the first time I taught in church on a Sunday morning. These pretty clothes gave me confidence when I was terrified and uncertain. I’m looking at them and see Christmas brunches, women’s conferences, memorable weddings, the church lobby. I lived my life in these clothes for seven years, and getting rid of them is a final farewell to our old life.

After this there is nothing left from “before.”

Clothes used to define me when my genuine identity was fuzzy. When I didn’t know who I was or what I was here for, I dressed like someone who did. I dolled up the container, but I’m learning that I’m really just a jar of clay. Because that was all I was ever supposed to be. It will be my pleasure to give these beautiful, well-crafted clothes to someone who needs them.

Because I don’t need them anymore.