I've got myself all in a tangle right now. I am irritated because I know that I had quite a few nice boxes for packing things -- you know the copier paper boxes that are nice and solid and have lids? Well, as I looked for them and couldn't find them, I realized that apparently I gave them to my dad (as if he needs anymore boxes. If you saw his house, you would appreciate this.)
As I'm sitting here stewing, I'm realizing more and more, it's not about the boxes. It's about the fact that I need to use the boxes to pack up my office at the church where I'm currently working to get ready to move to a new position at a new church. This is an exciting transition -- but it IS a transition, and I'm no good at them. It's a bittersweet move this time anyway; it's not like I'm so miserable where I am that I just can't wait to get out of there. It's a pretty good gig, I'm just moving on to a new adventure where I know God has led me. Yet, I still have to pack first.
It's not so bad, I have about four shelves of books, some files--probably 90% of which I won't be bringing unless they provide a template for something I'll be doing in the new place. So, over the next two weeks I just need to weed through everything and take what's mine, and leave the rest. Pitch some, pack some, store some away, leave the rest and say to the church, all of this stuff is still yours, it's not mine. I don't have to find a home for every errant scrap of fabric that has found its way into my office; I don't have to personally place every single thing in its perfect home, especially if it was in my space when I got there. I just need to pack up what I own and move on. And I think that's getting to me. I thought it was all good, but between this grouching over the boxes and the fact that I haven't a clue what I want to say to the people this Sunday when I preach (why am I preaching my last Sunday? why did I agree to this?), I know that it's getting to me. It's not about the boxes.