The Battle at Kruger

There is a solution to our problem of consuming and our problem of disposing: Community.

What if instead of five families owning, storing and using children’s toys, they shared these toys and passed them around as each family was in need? What if instead of four neighbors all owning their own lawn mowers they shared one? What if instead of three families owning a waffle maker, they passed it around depending on who would be enjoying a Saturday morning filled with waffle making? What if an entire church shared specialty cooking tools: Bundt cake pan, angel food cake pan, cake frosting tools, miniature muffin tins, steamer, rice maker, ice cream maker. What if an extended family all shared camping gear: lanterns, flashlights, sleeping pads, stoves.

I can hear the uproar:

• Sharing children’s toys? That’s ridiculous. They don’t take care of their toys very well. My child really loved this specific toy and I want to have it for my next child at the exact moment she needs it. I may forget about it and my child will never have the opportunity to play with such a stimulating toy.

• One lawnmower? No way. Who will pay for the gas? What if I always end up paying for the gas? What if he drives the mower too rough? His lawn is bigger than mine so he will use it more. I want it stored at my house so I can use it when it is convenient for me.

• I could never share a waffle maker. When I wake up in the morning, and I feel like waffles, I don’t want to have to call my friend to see if I can come over and get it. The moment will be lost and I will never eat waffles again.

• Specialty cooking tools shared between an entire church? If that many people are using the tools, they will wear much faster. They will get ruined. Someone is bound to misplace an item. Someone is bound to be too rough while using the tool or they will clean the item improperly. The convenience will disappear and I will no longer enjoy cooking. It will complicate my life.

• Camping gear: I have a certain brand I like to buy. Who will replace the batteries? Who will buy the propane canisters? What if we all want to go camping together?

I can hear the fear. We all live in fear of our life being a little less convenient. We live in fear of our things being lost or ruined. We live in fear of a lack of fairness.

But imagine all the toys that sit for days, months and years without ever being used. Imagine all the days of the week that a lawn mower sits in the garage waiting for Saturday. Imagine the dust that collects on the waffle maker as it waits for the Saturday morning craving for strawberries and whip cream. Imagine the cooking tools that get pushed to the back of the cupboard or drawer waiting years to be pulled out and used. Imagine the camping gear that spends most of the time in a box in the garage only to be pulled out twice a summer.

We are trained to be consumers, so we really believe that we need to protect our things and that life should be convenient and that we should each own our own everything. So it breaks, who cares? As a community you can buy a new one. So you have to make a call and drive 10 minutes to pick up a waffle maker and you end up eating waffles a half hour later than planned? Thirty minutes, in the long run, does that really matter? So, he is too rough with the lawn mower, teach him how to use it properly. So you have replaced the battery in the flashlight the last two times, eventually someone else will replace it.

Community is not convenient. Community is not fair. There is nothing about it that is easy or effortless. As described in the classic story The Berentstain Bears and the Trouble With Friends, Sister Bear had been playing with her friend Lizzy Bruin, and they began arguing over who should get which toy. She runs home, fed up, “I’m never going to play with that Lizzy Bruin again! It’s much better playing by yourself! When you play by yourself you can do what you want when you want without having to worry about that Lizzy Bruin.” Mama Bear wisely responds that there are many things that a bear cub can’t do alone, but there is one thing she can do alone, “Be lonesome.”

Most of the time in life, it is much easier to just play by yourself. You have complete control over everything. Life is convenient. Your things last longer.
Community is not convenient. But community, in the end will be the thing that stuffs our souls. Community will prevent us from becoming the Hollow Men.

As seen at the Battle of Kruger, a pack is much more powerful than a single-family unit. Had the baby buffalo only had its mother and father, it would not have survived. What if the other buffalo had said, “Oh no, I couldn’t help, I am putting my life in danger.” Or “Oh, what if my baby gets hurt in the process?” The baby buffalo would have died.

A community is committed to one another. A community sacrifices for one another. A community commits not only when it benefits them, but also when it doesn’t benefit them at all. A community will solve the problem of hollow souls. A community will solve the problem of consumerism and disposal. A community will many times make life more difficult but in the end, baby buffaloes will be saved and Sister Bears will be less lonesome.

The Pack Rat

Consumerism: when personal happiness is equated with consuming. The more I get, the happier I will be. If I just get the newer version, it will work better and my life will be better; I will be happier. If I just had a couple more of those, my life would be easier; I would be happier.

This is the culture we live in. I am so conflicted. Sometimes it is so clear that consuming more does not lead to happiness, and other times it seems so obvious that buying something will be the solution to all our problems.

Consumerism is all about consuming, getting more, getting better. But we often forget to talk about the disposal that comes along with a consuming culture. With every new gadget that comes out, an old one has to be thrown away. The pile grows: buy more, get rid of old, buy new, throw out old, buy new, throw out old.

As we continue to give away more things, I am finding that our problem is not consuming. Nick and I actually consume relatively little. This is not because we are righteous and disciplined, but rather, we just aren’t consumers. We don’t really enjoy the idea of purchasing (although we both have our weaknesses). Our struggle comes with the disposal. We love to simplify our life. We enjoy getting rid of things, but I am beginning to wonder whether the disposers are actually worse than the consumers. We stand on our holy hill and shout out: “Stop consuming. Stop shopping. Stop contributing to the problem.”

We could get rid of all of our winter clothes right now, because we don’t wear them. But then we become consumers when the first rain comes and we realize we gave away our raincoat. Yes, we gave away 30 pieces of clothing in September, but then we had to buy 30 new pieces in November. We could get rid of all of our infant toys right now, because there is no infant to play with them. But when another baby comes around, we will need to purchase baby toys (or someone will need to purchase them for us).

So who is living a life that is more helpful to the world: the pack rat or the simplifier? Who is fighting consumerism more? My dad has every tool you can imagine. Strewn throughout his garage and barn are tools, mostly old, many unrecognizable to anyone under 50. But he never has to go buy tools. He has boxes filled with PVC pipe fittings. Boxes and boxes left over from the days he was a landscape contractor. But he never has to buy PVC pipe fittings. We never have to buy PVC pipe fittings because he always has what we need.

Nick and I gave away a whole bunch of computer cords a few months back because they were not being used. Simplifying life. Two weeks ago we needed one. So we purchased a cord. Simplifying life? We have been given many craft items for our kids that are much too old for them at this point. We could get rid of them now. This would take care of a good 30 days on our 365-day calendar. But when Carson turns 5, will we find ourselves purchasing these same craft items that we already owned a year and a half before? We have many camping and outdoor toys that we used often before kids but we are unable to use them now that we have two little ones. Do we give those away and purchase them again when the time comes in our lives when we can use them.

When we pull an item out and say, “We don’t use it now, but we may use it in the future,” should we keep it?

I don’t believe that consuming more leads to happiness, but I also don’t believe that disposing of everything leads to happiness. Consuming and disposing go hand in hand. We need to find a balance. We need to simplify but we need to simplify wisely.

267 Fewer Things

365 Things has gone stagnate. Our calendar recording our daily give-aways is empty. I am not really sure what happened. But somewhere along the line we lost motivation. So here it is, August 18th and we haven’t given anything away since July 18th. We now have 31 things we have to give away tomorrow.

It all seemed so exciting at first. But after 98 things were given away, it started to get a little harder. We still have such a surplus, but we have to dig a little deeper in the drawer and we have to do a little more convincing of ourselves that we will survive without it.

I actually believe we acquired about 31 things this month. Why are free t-shirts so hard to pass up?

So we will spend the next week attempting to catch up. I am afraid of what will be placed in the pile. I am afraid because I am so attached to my stuff. I am afraid that along with the things, some part of my identity will be taken also. I am afraid because some part of me really believes that I can’t live without it. I am afraid because we may give something away that we really will need at some brief moment in the future.

The easy stuff is already at Goodwill. For us, the next 267 days will be the true experiment. 267 fewer things.

Maybe

We gave it all away. The pile of things that had accumulated in our garage is no longer here; it is no longer ours.

I worry about where these things went. I really don’t want them to end up in someone’s house that is just like mine. I don’t want the baby clothes to go to someone who already has full drawers.  I don’t want the toy cars to go to a child who already has a room filled with stuffed animals, puzzles, and books. I don’t want the pair of leather sandals to find themselves on someone’s feet who already has a closet full of shoes.

As I pondered where to take the pile of things, I realized how difficult it is to find someone who needs.  In a world filled with starving and sick people, I found it difficult to find someone who needed my things.  There are many people out there who want things.  But I want to give it all away to someone who needs things.

The things ended up at Goodwill.  A store often frequented by high schoolers trying to establish their uniqueness and people who already have, but who want more because that is what we do. We want more. We buy more.

Where are those who need? I am surrounded by too many people who want. I can’t change the world by giving things to those who already have. If all the goods keep going to the people who already have too much, things will never get better. How do we spread it out? How do we make things more fair?

I realize that my 150 things are not that significant.  I realize that a few bags of baby clothes and kid’s toys and leather sandals will not solve the world’s problems. But it seems significant that I am looking and I can’t find the needy.  If the needy are not in our sight, we will continue to give to those just like us.  Things will continue to be uneven.  The wealthy will continue to have wealth; the needy will continue to need. The world will go unchanged.

Maybe I need to look harder. Maybe I need to turn around and look in a different direction. Maybe I need to move. Maybe you are standing right in front of me, but I am so focused on myself that I am not seeing you. Maybe I need to open my eyes. Maybe I need to get dirty. Maybe next time, my 150 things will go to someone who really needs.  Maybe the world can change.

Hesitation

So Saturday came and went.  I hesitated.  As the guys worked out in my parent’s nursery, I wanted so badly to ask them what they needed.  But I hesitated. I didn’t know how to ask and I was afraid.

I watched the movie The Kite Runner the other night.  As movies always go, Nick fell asleep on my lap and eventually sat up, looked at me groggily and told me he was going to bed.  I had read the story years ago, and I had forgotten most of the details.  It is a story about the tragedy of corrupt power and war.  But more importantly it is a story about forgiveness, redemption and love.  The story ends with a character who chooses to risk his life for a child.  A child he didn’t know. A child who had experienced the pain that comes with corruption and war.  The child needed to be loved. The main character needed to be redeemed.  He found purpose and redemption by entering the unknown and risking dangerous consequences in order to love one single child. His world was changed because he loved one person. The boy’s life was changed because of this love. Is it possible that the world is changed when one person experiences a love so intense?

Sitting alone on the couch that night, I found myself weeping.  I have spent my life wanting to do something significant.  I really do want to change the world and part of me really believes that one person can. But I hesitate.  Everyday, I hesitate and choose to do what is comfortable and what is known because I fear the consequences.  As much as I want to change the world, I think I am afraid of what that means.  What if I really did? What if I really changed someone’s life?  Change brings tears. Change brings intense happiness. Change is dangerous.  I am afraid of changing the world.

So my pile still sits there, cluttering my garage instead of my house. And maybe nothing in that pile will ever significantly change someone’ life. But I still have 220 days. 220 things.  220 chances to choose to not hesitate.

A life of less

I read this post today.  It’s thought provoking and helpful.  The book it references, The Power of Less, sounds intriguing.  I’ll have to check at the library for it.  If anyone owns it and would be willing to let me borrow it for a few weeks, let me know.

Despair

My dad has been hiring these guys to come and help him do some work around the property.  They charge $15 an hour and they work hard for every minute they are here.  They worked all weekend with my dad in the pouring rain, digging ditches. They left covered in mud.

Later this afternoon, my mom told me that one of the men has only been able to get 20 hours of work a week. He has a family.  They asked to buy my parent’s couch.  This is a couch that sits in my parent’s garage, covered by an old blanket.  The cats sleep on it, rub against it, and scratch at it.  “Buy it?” My dad asks.  “Oh, that couch? You can have it.”

I felt despair when my mom told me their story.  Despair goes beyond sadness. I felt sort of sick.  Maybe disgusted at my own life.  I felt guilty.

Look at how ridiculous my life is. I have never wanted for anything.  I have never known what it feels like to be afraid that money will run out. I have never had to feel inadequate because I couldn’t provide for my children.  I work hard, but I don’t work by fear that there may not be work tomorrow. I live in a reality that is not known to the majority of the world. Yet I live as though my life is normal.  I live in a reality that allows me to righteously create a blog called 365 fewer things.  I feel important and revolutionary because I give something away every day.

After hearing the story, I ventured into the garage and looked at our pile of “stuff”. What can I give them? How can I somehow relieve my guilt?  How can I make their life better?  But then I realized that all of this stuff is piled here because it is worthless. Not just to me, but to everyone. I live such a ridiculous life, that I have 365 things to give away.

I realized the absurdity of this blog.  This blog would seem mind boggling to them.  I would be embarrassed if they found out.

So, next Saturday, we will possibly take this to a new level.  In my broken Spanish and in their broken English, maybe I can manage to communicate to them: “What do you need? Take anything. Take away my despair.  Help me to feel less guilt.”

Who knows what they will say.  Who knows if they will want anything.  What if they ask for my bed? Would I be willing to give it up? Would that be taking this 365 fewer things too far?

I want to make a difference in this world. I want one thing I give away to matter to someone else.

Two Pairs

I was recently given a new pair of sunglasses.  They’re great.  They fit well and they look fine.  I already had a pair of sunglasses; the new pair made two.  I guess that I could wear both pairs at the same time… it might be a bit risky but it’s a possibility.

I’m kidding.

I know that I don’t need two pairs.   Why is it then, that there is something in me that feels a deep desire to keep them both?  I don’t want to let the old ones go.  I could certainly justify keeping them… What if I lose a pair?  What if I break a pair?  What if I’m in the mood for one pair this week and the other next week?  What if someone needs to borrow a pair?  Wouldn’t it be nice to have an extra just in case?

If it weren’t for this new adventure of giving things away, I may have let the justifications get the best of me.  I may have simply put the old glasses in a drawer or in the glove compartment.  But I couldn’t bring myself to keep them… not this time.

So, if I ever do get the hankering to wear two pairs, I’ll have to check with my friend Daniel.  He’s the proud new owner of my old sunglasses.

Week Two

We are almost two weeks into this.  It is much more difficult than I had anticipated.  It is easy to look around the house and hypothetically give away items by saying, “I could get rid of that.” It is much more difficult to actually get rid of them.  When you hypothetically give things away, you feel good about yourself, because you feel as though by saying you could get rid it, you are somehow not attached to it. But when you actually give it away, there is a sense of loss. Almost fear.

This morning I went through our drawer of pots and pans.  We have two full drawers. I remember when we were designing our kitchen; I was so excited about these two drawers. I anticipated having so much room to store these pots and pans. No more balancing acts. I expected everything to fit easily.  But when we actually moved the pots and pans in, they crowded the drawers. The pans now sit precariously on one another. Five frying pans, different sizes stacked on one another. Why do we have five frying pans?  Five different sizes. We really do use most of our pots and pans. Some more often than others. Nick uses one pan every single day to make his daily omelet. We have one frying pan that is about ten inches in diameter.  It came with our set when we registered for our wedding. We went with the set instead of registering for individual pans because that is what you do.  You get all the pots and pans, just in case.

We live in a world where we store things for those “just in case” scenarios.  A ten-inch frying pan, just in case? In case I want to do what?  Fry one egg.  Stir-fry a cup of vegetables. Heat up one corn tortilla.

We have had the ten-inch frying pan for almost seven years now. We have used it.  Maybe once. Probably before we had kids. Now it just gets in the way. It makes the pile even more precarious. So we decided to get rid of it.

I found myself struggling to get rid of it.  Just in case. Just in case. Just in case.

So, the next time I need to fry one egg, I will have to call a friend or walk over to my parent’s house and ask, “Do you by any chance have a ten inch frying pan?”  If not, I guess I could use my twelve-inch frying pan.

We Are the Hollow Men

It began with Lent.  A friend mentioned that she had, in previous years, given something away for each day of Lent.  For the Zerwas family, this almost seemed too easy.  We always have a pile bags full of clothes, and other things that have been deemed unnecessary, ready to ship off to Goodwill. By some people’s standards, we are obnoxiously simple.  For others we are probably still too excessive, too wasteful.

The decision was made: Nick would give away one thing for each day of Lent.  Shirts, pants, books.  The pile continued to grow.  As we discussed the act of giving things away, we began to gain a false sense of perfection. It was as though getting rid of some shirts or some books somehow made us more righteous.  But as the pile grew, our egos seemed to shrink. The more we got rid of, the more obvious our normalcy became.

“We are the hollow men/ we are the stuffed men.” T.S. Elliot.  It all became so clear. It is not about taking trips to Goodwill every month.  Everyone does that.  It is not about getting rid of the nasty shirt at the bottom of the dresser drawer, wrinkled from years of being hidden underneath ten other shirts.  It is about a paradigm shift.  Why do we have so much stuff?  We consume, we buy, we buy cheaper, we buy at discounted rates, we feel good about bargains.  Who convinced us that we need all of these things?  Twelve pans, thirty cups, twenty-eight shirts, ten pairs of shoes, three vacuums, eleven knives, fifteen wash clothes, five hammers, eight beanies, three swim suits.  We live in a culture that has convinced all of us that we are in constant need of things. We can hold our heads up, because we mask our excesses under the guise of necessity. When in actuality, we don’t need these things.

We live in a society that is stuffing our closets, stuffing our cupboards, stuffing our houses, stuffing our cars, and stuffing our time, all in an attempt to stuff our soul with some unreachable contentment.  We are stuffed, but we are hollow.

So the forty days of Lent grew.  In order to really shift the paradigm away from this convoluted idea of necessity, we would need to continue getting rid of things.

So here it is – An experiment in rebuilding our paradigm.  An experiment in depending on one another.  An experiment in separating our identities from our things.  An experiment in stuffing our souls. One year. 365 fewer things.