Clear the Shelves!

             Some very weird things can happened to your brain when you’re sick, feverish, on meds, and hacking your head off. One thing that kept wandering through my mind as I was in bed this past week was that my little bookcase nearby was stuffed with books.

            Now, for a booklover, that’s an odd thing to think. What is even more remarkable is that the thought didn’t go away as the medicine gained ground. Instead, I stared more and more intently at the books on those shelves.

The top row was my shelf of little books, small in size and thickness. They were volumes that are encouraging and could be read quickly. But one was a little embarrassing. It was a classic, according to my husband, that I had fought my way through thirteen years ago and quite honestly found as old-sounding as it was. It wasn’t easy for me to understand, but I was rather proud I’d read it. Yes, it was a pride book. I admit it. (And I’m never going to read it again!)

That wasn’t the only problem book on the shelves. There were books about Madam Guyon, Fenelon, Henri Nouwen. All very good books that I’d had for years. But I never read them. And as I dozed and coughed and stared some more, I realized I didn’t want to read them. I liked the idea of reading them, but I didn’t want to actually do it.

Then there was a whole other classification of books there--the sad books. Multiple books on prodigals, books about when people don’t want to go to church, books about family challenges, how-tos for dealing with difficult people, books about praying and what to do when nothing happens when you pray, how to handle being wronged, and forgiveness. There were a lot sad books on those shelves. As I thought about all those books, I realized I didn’t even like the idea of reading through all the sadness to find that all those people probably didn’t even have any better idea than I did about the why’s of those troubles. And, no, I didn’t really want to slog through them to find out if I were right or not.

It was all enough to make me cough and roll over. And I did.

But when I started to get better, I got a big box. As the books started coming off the shelves, so did some unexpected weight in my life. Guilt from the money I’d spent on things I was no longer interested in, relief at the disappearance of an imaginary reading to-do list, and a lot of sad thought generated whenever I looked at the shelves.

Sometimes it’s just good to take a hard look at things and say: This isn’t helpful in my life anymore. Maybe it never was, but it certainly isn’t now. And it’s time to say goodbye to some excess baggage.

My shelves are rather barren now, and that feels good. Whoever thought bronchitis would lead to clearing the shelves!