Closets of empty boxes

Prior to selling my mother’s house, my siblings and I went through the closets. Mom could always be counted on to find a box when you needed one. She also had what she called “Dutch Tupperware,” which was a fabulous collection of old Blue Bonnet margarine tubs and plastic Cool Whip containers. As we looked into some closets, we saw the magnitude of the work that lay before us. The closets were full of boxes.

Tentatively we pulled out the first box and looked inside, only to discover it was full of empty boxes. We pulled down the next box and the next box after that and eventually discovered that Mom had two closets full of boxes of empty boxes. We laughed and marveled and wondered: Whatever possessed her to possess so many boxes?

When we opened the kitchen cabinets, we found shelves filled with empty tubs and empty jars and empty containers of every shape and size. Even little styrofoam flats that had once contained a pound of hamburger had been carefully washed and stored away for that day when you might need such a thing. In the middle of our grief we laughed till we cried at Mom’s wonderful idiosyncrasies. She had carefully clipped the “do not remove under penalty of law” tags from the mattresses and filed them away in her filing cabinet under M, presumably waiting for the day when the mattress police knocked on the door and looked under the bed.

I have a life that looks like boxes of empty boxes.

Boxes of idols.

Boxes of empty pursuits.

All meaningless.

“You never know when you might need a box,” Mom used to say as she gathered up boxes at Christmas and stored them away. “Don’t throw that Cool Whip container away; I’ll just wash it out for later in case I need to store something in the fridge or bring somebody some soup.”  

If my sons would just marry and give me grandchildren, I think, then I would experience joy. Empty box.

If only the Village Church would grow and give me a retirement plan, I think, then I would experience comfort. Empty Cool Whip container.

If only I could write a poem that delivered a standing ovation, I think, then I would finally be happy. A file folder full of mattress tags.

What about the dream to plant churches all over Tucson? That should garner some godly benefit, shouldn’t it? Lots and lots of empty boxes.

My “if onlys” leave me with nothing whether I get them or not. The “clapping gods” were great until I found out the emptiness of a standing ovation. Narcissism bores me. The accumulation of stuff in the garage is a testament to meaninglessness.

A gift
I’ve told the Village about my terror-producing, middle-of-the-night wake-ups when I’m sure there is no God and all is and lost and only an idiot would believe nonsense like a giant flood or a sea parting or a virgin birth. From their own doubt and fear, the Villagers call out to me and ask, “And what do you do with that?” and I tell them I just usually wait until the Spirit comes and whispers and tells me it will all be okay and that I can go ahead and go back to sleep. I tell my kids and other people’s kids all the same thing. I tell lots of other wonderful people the same thing: “What else ya got?”

When we were discussing faith and reason, some philosophy students in a class at the University of Arizona said they saw and therefore they believed. That makes sense. I asked them if it might be possible to believe and therefore see? They chewed on that for a while.

As absurd as it sounds, I fully believe that 2,000 plus years ago Jesus, the Son of God, died on a Roman cross, was buried and three days later walked out of the grave.  

Some days I believe it because all the other options are even more absurd. The longer I believe, I think, the more I see the amazing way God calls me to himself and the more I take delight in his goodness.

I can’t reason my way to faith. I can’t grit my teeth and conjure it up. I can’t put it in a lock box and hang on to it for dear life. It is a gift. A gift God delivers in the midst of a sea of doubt. Without it I’ve only got closets of empty boxes.