Crafting, Junking and Dying to Self . . .

  • By Brenda Buckingham
  • 23 Oct, 2012
My mind is spinning in so many directions as I write this post, that I hope what I put on paper (. . .er, the computer . . .) will even make sense.  As I posted about a few days ago, I went on a wonderful craft retreat in McCall Idaho with my wonderful bestie, […]
I accomplished quite a bit during this three day extravaganza . . . I finished a quilt top I started back in the 90’s .  . . no longer my colors, but I still like it okay.  I also finished my patchwork shower curtain I started 2 1/2 years ago and then made another quilt top start to finish.  I even had time to whip up 4 little pumpkins from felt.  I plan to do more of them and add name tags for our Thanksgiving Table.
This was all wonderful.  The socializing with this lovely group of ladies was great, doing the cute antique and quilt shops in McCall was great.  Great, great, great.  It was all great.  So today, why I am feeling so . . . shall we say . . . “not great”?

Through some of the winding roads and small little towns we passed, we saw several tiny shacks and I found myself wondering about who lived there.  Deborah, was in contemplative thought as well, so we drove quietly, letting our thoughts take root in each of us.

When we got to Lewiston, we began hitting their junk stores.  We had a hard time finding the last junk store, and I took a wrong turn.  As I turned around in a driveway, I was stunned by a tiny little shed sized building in front of us.  It was probably 10′ x 10′ at the most, built of weathered wood, most likely from old pallets.  It had one tiny window and a little metal chimney coming out of the top.  “Does someone live there?” I asked incredulously, not really needing an answer, as it was evident they did.  “I hope not,” Deborah said quietly.

 

I do not believe all people are called to live on the streets or in shacks.  In our church, there is a wonderful older couple that live in a large house.  It is decidedly larger than two people need.  But they open their home on a regular basis.  When our pastor was moving here from Colorado, they housed their family of 5, when our children’s pastor was moving over from Wenatchee, he stayed with them for three months.  Countless missionaries and people in need have found shelter in the warmth of this Christian home.  If they were to give this all away, they would lose what I believe, for them, is a viable ministry that God has blessed.

For some people, it is not stuff that entangles or distracts them.  It is addictions.  Whether to pornography, sex, video-gaming, drinking, drugs, shopping or gambling, this addiction is a stumbling block for this relationship.  For these people, giving this up, is truly “dying to self” as it is giving up the thing they love the most, for the relationship they desire to have the most.

So, I realize what I am holding tightly to is my sense of being a “somebody” . . . my dream . . . Past Blessings Farm.  Does this mean I have to give it up?  Humanly, I hope not.  I love feeling creative, I love having people come to our farm and go on and on about what a beautiful place it is . . . because it is a beautiful place!  While I don’t believe there is any “harm” in this business, does it have any eternal value?  I love putting on my antique show, even with the huge amount of work it entails.  I love refinishing furniture and making something beautiful out of something that was once old and ugly.  But is that anything that won’t burn in the end?  Will this business, my creative outlet, my “how I feel good about me” venture, be the thing I have to let go of?  And does letting go of it mean it is done?  Do I walk away, shut the doors and say, no more?  I really don’t know.  Right now I am struggling. Do I trust God enough to say, “Take it, it’s yours.”  I am fearful.  What do I do if I have nothing . . . nothing that sets me apart.  Nothing that makes me special.  Who am I?  Am I still worthy?  Creative?  Will I be forgotten?

For years I have joked that the song “Unforgettable” is my song . . . only with the words “forgettable.”  For my 10 year old birthday party, not one guest showed up.  I sat at the decorated table, dressed in my red, white and blue daisy mini skirt, waiting.  But no one came.  I have been forgotten to be invited to parties of close friends, to be a part of things I know I would be able to contribute to.  I am very involved in the antiquing/junking community here in Spokane.  We are all facebook friends.  When I read of luncheons and get togethers they seem to all be a part of, knowing I was not invited, I struggle.  Is it because I am too conventional?  Or maybe I am too boring . . . too trivial . . . too unimportant.  Once again, my self-esteem plummets.  Past Blessings Farm has been my attempt to fight back, to be noticed, to be a somebody.  But it isn’t working.  I am not “one of them.”  I am the outsider, still wanting to be noticed.  The shy girl still waiting to be asked to the prom. 

 

Signing off, with a heart filled with questions and contemplation,

 

Blessified

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