in the early days of engagement, when gifts were coming in, I received a Charles Dickens Era house, it was the old church, and it looked a lot like the church of my youth.
It was a gift like no other.
delighted, I ohhed and ahhed over this house. It was the start of a collection for me
and a new dream was forming. One of enchanting displays of Christmas pleasure and fun.
as the wedding day came, I received a few other houses for the collection.
as holidays such a birthdays and Christmas arrived, more houses were added.
and then the addiction came. I wanted more houses for my collection.
And so, when new pieces were created and promoted, I would ask or buy or dream about them. I bought them as I could, and I used money I did not have.
and as the year's past and children were added to the family, my collection had grown obnoxious. I had neither room to store, nor room to display my vast holdings. Squished into a two bedroom apartment with two children, I knew I was in trouble. Debt filled my conscience and lighted Christmas houses filled my closet. I was ashamed and embarrassed and I felt so foolish.
and so in a panic, a prayer, and a rage, I packed every last piece of the over 75 houses in my trunk, not to mention the tens of figurines, lights, and decorations to enhance the display, and I drove to goodwill.
it was july.
that was a problem.
goodwill doesn't take christmas in july. truly.
mortified, haunted, and on mission, I drove to a mentor's house.
she wasn't home. truly.
I called. She didn't answer.
feeling desparate, I returned to the dumpster at my apartment complex and one by one, with the two preschoolers hanging in the car, I threw piece by precious, perfect piece into the trash. And as I threw them, I shouted and cried and proclaimed that I loved God more than I loved each house.
