Too Much--1997
“This
is too much,” I grumble to myself as I struggle up the ladder to the attic
carrying four heavy shoeboxes filled with gifts. I heave myself up the last step and use my arm to wipe the
perspiration from my face before placing the last box on top of the neatly
stacked piles. I’m finished. I’ve toted all eighty shoeboxes up—four
at a time. After making my last
descent I push up the folding stairs.
Twenty trips up. Twenty
trips down. Me snarling all the way.
For
the past week the shoeboxes had a nice cozy home in the bedroom that belonged
to my oldest daughter before she went to college. We don’t use that room for anything. It’s empty--the perfect place to store
a resplendent array of eighty shoeboxes that are waiting to be shipped off to
children in other countries for Operation Christmas Child.
But
my husband didn’t see it that way.
“Can’t you get rid of these shoeboxes?” he complained. “They’re all over the place.”
“They’re
hardly all over,” I defended myself.
“I have them stacked up nice and neat on Amy’s dresser and bedroom
floor. They’re not bothering
you.”
But
it seems they did bother him.
So
after he mentioned it for the third time, I harrumphed to the attic opening,
yanked down the stairs, and hauled up all eighty boxes. I had to maneuver the rest of the
assorted attic treasures to make room.
And I wasn’t nice about it.
Last
year I packed only five shoeboxes, but then I started thinking that if I
collected items on sale throughout the year I could do more. The number forty kept running through
my mind, so I decided to set a goal of filling forty shoeboxes. Then I started shopping. The problem was, God led me to so many
bargains the items started piling up.
For example, using double coupons I netted sixty free tubes of
toothpaste and several hundred free bars of soap. I stashed all my finds in the attic, and in the summer I
collected and wrapped forty shoeboxes so they’d be ready to fill when fall
arrived.
In
October I began the happy task of stuffing the shoeboxes, and I soon felt like
the widow in the Bible whose oil never ran out. I filled all forty boxes and still had piles of items left. So I made several trips back to the
shoe stores begging for more boxes.
Finally,
I had whittled the piles down to only a few lonely leftover items. The boxes were all wrapped and filled,
and I counted the stacks to get a final tally, “seventy-eight, seventy-nine,
eighty,” I whispered. Exactly
twice the number I had trusted God to provide. I was excited.
Then
my husband, Jim, the omnipresent Voice Of Reason, looked up and down the rows
and said, “See, you never plan ahead.
Now how are you going to pay for the donation for shipping these?”
“I
don’t know,” I said with a near-moan.
“I know it’s a lot.”
Samaritan’s Purse, the organization that spearheads Operation Christmas
Child, requests a five dollar donation to cover the shipping costs for each
shoebox. I hadn’t budgeted for
that.
My
joy hissed out, and the stacked boxes began to form a wall of resentment. A wall that I just transported to the
attic with a disgruntled attitude.
Now that Jim doesn’t have to look at the problem, maybe it will go
away.
*****
Over
the next few days, I realize the problem isn’t going to disappear. I trek to the attic and see that the
bright Christmas wrapping on the shoeboxes is crinkling in the heat, making
them look as wrinkled as I feel. “What can I do about this, God?” I pray.
A
plan forms in my mind. Maybe there
are people at church who aren’t packing shoeboxes themselves who would like to
contribute to help pay for the shipping.
I suggest this to Jim, and he says, “That’s a good idea.” Well—a positive comment. Of course, he’s not offering to be the
one to ask someone at church about this.
I
hate asking for help. I vow never
to get into this needy situation again.
Next time I’ll plan ahead and not do too much.
*****
It
takes three weeks and a lot of prayer before I grab all of my miniscule supply
of courage, wipe my perspiring palms on my jumper, and approach our pastor,
David, with my request.
“That’s
no problem,” he says. Why was I so
afraid to ask? A few minutes later
he stands up to give the morning announcements before church starts and says,
“Kathy Schriefer packed more shoeboxes than she expected. And now she can’t afford to pay for the
shipping unless she sells one of her children or something.” Hmm, I hadn’t thought of that. Then he continues, “So if you want to
contribute to help with this, put your contribution in an envelope and mark it
for shoeboxes.”
*****
Two
weeks later I write a letter to Samaritan’s Purse, enclose my church’s check
for $400, slap on a stamp, and drop it in the mailbox. Easy.
God,
you are too much.
