My sweet man has an obsession. Now, I am not divulging anything that he would not admit himself, but in fact, in a service to others, he has given me permission to share.
His confession? He cannot walk by a sale of paper products without stocking up. And, by stocking up, I really mean stock piling.
Now, we live in a very small, modest townhouse. It does not include a walk-in pantry, or large locker or storage area. The only spot for storing things is through the garage, under our stairs which is where we stash our Christmas tree, seasonal decorations, and a few bins of my Ďthiní clothes, (which Iím sure Iíll fit into again real soon so I keep them handy).
That being said, when my tissue-aholic husband comes home every other month with twenty-four rolls of paper towel, 96 double rolls of bathroom tissue and dozens upon dozens of boxes of facial tissue, I often break down and cry.
Which is okay as clearly I have a variety of products with which to dab my eyes.
With nowhere else to store his purchases, he somehow manages to shove them into the over-packed closet. Watching him open the door and toss yet another roll in, I am mystified by how he can break the laws of gravity. (Kind of reminds me of how I once defied the laws of physics by getting my size 14 thighs into a size 10 pair of jeans . . . until I near ruptured my spleen and had to place the pants in the bin under the stairs).
For sure, my husbandís ability to store infinite amounts of tissue is downright inspiring.
This magical, secret closet is viewable from the street whenever we open our garage door. It appears to be like any other door but we who live here know the truth. The danger that lurks behind. If one isnít careful and absentmindedly opens the door fully, a tumble of tissue will most likely leave the poor sap buried alive.
When buying a home, women usually check to see if there are ample storage closets because letís face it, we all have stuff we want to hide. Stuff that isnít pretty and does not nor should not be put on display but rather squirreled away from our friends, family and especially strangers.
Secret stashes of sports equipment, toys, items that were earmarked for goodwill before Christmas and are now jammed in behind the fake tree . . . and stockpiles of sale clearance items saved for a rainy day . . . or a stuffy nose.
There is a booklet written by Robert Boyd Munger called, ĎMy Heart Christís Homeí and in it he writes about different rooms representing parts of our life that we share with Christ. In his story, thereís a dreaded closet storing dead stinky things from a life before Christ. Sad to say a lot of us hold onto not only awful things from our past, but we drag in new disgusting things as well.
Like the man in Robertís story, we also have done our best to hide our nasty secrets in the hall closet of our heart, in some vain attempt to fool not only others, but Christ Himself. The messier this closet becomes, the more we manage to stuff in. Not wanting to have anything fall out, we sneak it open just a crack and toss in more garbage. This way we are not forced to acknowledge or deal with the junk inside. We just keep tossing, stashing and dashing. But eventually, when the stench of our life becomes overwhelming, we finally hand over the keys to the Lord and allow Him not only access, but we beg Him to clean it out andóbest of allótake full ownership of our whole heart!
As I wrote down these thoughts, contemplating my own reality in this area, I stopped and reread the little booklet before venturing into the disastrous avalanche that was awaiting me.
You see, my discount shopping husband didnít just bring home some bargains; he also brought home some nasty virus and is under the covers sniffling and coughing. Thankfully he reminded me that he is fully preparedólike a good Cub Scoutóand we have enough supplies for a whole season of colds, flus and allergy achoos.
But with him being sick, itís up to me to go open that dreaded closet and fetch the tissues! Lord have mercy!
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