“And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or lands, for my name’s sake, will receive a hundredfold and will inherit eternal life.”
(Matthew 19:29)
So this past week I have started moving out of my one-bedroom shack that I have come to absolutely love. It’s a very tiny home, but it is MY tiny home. I’m 5’9”, meaning if I want to rinse my hair in the shower I have to bend awkwardly, but it is MY shower. The food in the refrigerator is MY food. The DVDs and records are MY DVDs and records. When I come home, all of the space (like…350 sq feet, maybe) is MINE.
Can you see where my thoughts have mislead me yet?
If you already get the gist of this blog, you have my permission to stop reading.
“#deathtoindependence” is what I hash-tagged on an “artsy fartsy” photo I posted about painting my old room in my parents’ house. That hash-tag is so passive-aggressive hipster of me. Because in a lot of ways, I’m not mourning the stuff I’m giving up or the house I’m leaving, I’m mourning something deeper. Because I don’t really hold value to stuff. My mother will be the first one to tell you that I’m not at all sentimental and therefore heartless (by her standards…a lot of boys will tell you the same thing though). But the fact of the matter is, I loved being alone. I LOVED IT.
To me, the only things that suck about living alone is: 1) You only have yourself to blame when you run out of toilet paper at 4 in the morning, because you forgot to pick up another pack. 2) Much like number 1, if you trip over shoes, the only shoes in the house are yours. So yell away, schitzo. Other than that, living alone is like a one-woman, pantless dance party where you can drunkenly bake at 2 a.m. and the only one who’s going to be mad at you in the morning is your head and the pile of dirty dishes. Nothing a cup of coffee and some soapy water can’t fix. And I’m totally serious about the pantless thing…everyone knows to text me before they show up at my house.
So here I am, packing all this stuff up. Most of it I’m fine with selling or throwing away. Most of it I don’t really care about. However, I had this deep, dark feeling ascending from the depths of me and I didn’t understand why. “God, where is this coming from? I love my family. I don’t really care about moving back home. I really don’t care about any of this stuff, so why do I feel like this?” That’s when God kind of punched me in the stomach. It kind of felt like that feeling when you landed a somersault too hard and the ground kicked the air out of your lungs. It doesn’t really hurt, it’s just…uncomfortable. He told me, “You’re not mourning this stuff or this house, you’re mourning this life.” And then He reminded me of the rich young man in Matthew 19. After Jesus told this young man he had to sell everything and follow him, it says that the man “went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions.”(Matthew 19:22). I do not have “great” possessions. Like I said, most of my stuff I don’t even care about. So what do I have that is so hard for me to give up? A life that I can control.
For over a year now I have lived on my own. I’ve never been late on a bill. I’ve always had food in the house. I haven’t missed a day of work. I’ve had enough money to go out with friends when I wanted to, or to pick up an extra cup of coffee at Starbucks, or the extra burrito at Chipotle (because who doesn’t need an extra burrito?). I’ve been completely independent, and therefore have had control over everything. By taking the steps to move back into my family’s home, I’m paying the first dues in what Luke 14 calls “The Cost of Discipleship”. Jesus told the crowds following Him that to be His disciple you had to hate your family and your own life. He said, “therefore, any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple.”(Luke 14:33) Ouch. Okay, but like…what does renounce mean? “To say especially in a formal or official way that you will no longer have or accept (something) : to formally give up (something),” answers Merriam-Webster. I am mourning the stuff I have to pack into these parentheses.
Insert “independence”. Insert “control”. Insert “security”. Insert “pride”. These are just a few examples of the real, deep stuff I will be packing up and giving away. These (something)’s will be “formally given up” so that I can follow Jesus. Because it is not MY life. “It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me,“ as Paul put it in his letter to the Galatians. This is the cost of discipleship, because anything worth having does not come free. This is #deathtoindependence, because I must be dependent on Him. This is me saying to myself, “Girl…you just had to want something more out of life, didn’t you? Look where we are now. You’re going to need to invest in some more pants.”
Thank you all for reading my blog and continuing to support me financially and through prayer and encouragement. It means so much. And I challenge you to go through your stuff, and to see what He is calling you to pack up and give away, so that you can fully follow Him. The Cost of Discipleship ain’t cheap, y’all.
