How hard is it for you to get rid of things? Are you emotionally attached to material possessions?

How do some people have garage sales, set up forty tables all over their front yard, and clean out their house without collapsing in a flood of tears? I have family members who have no problem selling their child’s first bike. “Oh, no—how could you!” is more like my shocked cry. “His little feet touched those peddles. His dimpled hands hung onto those handlebars. The ice-cream cone in his hand dripped down the front fender … chocolate smeared on shiny blue paint. I can still see it in my mind!”

I’m posting pictures of a doll I got when I was three and one of me at six-years of age, still playing with the doll. Her name was Janet. Her rubber legs started ripping (see the tape wrapped around one leg) and by the time I was eight–she went to doll heaven. I think that’s what they told me. But I became the happy mother to another baby doll, which I still have. My daughter played with it and grandaughters have laughed at it and its wild hair.

I think I’ve always hung onto things. My mother’s doll, which is seventy-two years old, reclines in one of my doll cradles. I received that particular cradle when I was small enough to sit in it. It doesn’t matter that my dad actually filled in cracks in the doll’s composite head with wood putty and repainted it. Yes, he did that. Yes, I know that ruined the value of it. (Let’s hear a chorus of groans.) I was in total shock when I saw it afterwards but I keep it. I don’t think he’ll read this … so I can pour out my heart to you.  🙂

I’m the type that looks a mess in the junk drawer and mulls over the possibility that all the stuff could someday come in handy or turn into an antique, which everyone in the whole world is hoping to get their hands on it. And of course … if I throw something away, without fail, I’ll need it next week. Oh, my, I should’ve kept that old dog cage in the shed, because one of my chickens had a stroke and needs a small space to recuperate.

Yes, I know deep down happiness can’t be found in material things or relics of the past. Our hope and life is in Christ. We must release to him all the material things and possessions we have and be comforted in the fact that he is our “everything”. With all that is in us, we must cling to Christ and not hang onto what this world deems important. Freedom from entanglement brings peace. While those around you shake their heads and say they can’t understand why you don’t panic at times of loss, you can feel a sense of peace.

Psalms 90:14 gives us something to live for besides worldly assets. “O satisfy us early (in the morning) with thy mercy; that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.” Mercy is something we all require and we should long to experience it repeatedly during our life. We shouldn’t toss this huge gift in the garbage heap.

“The heart of the prudent getteth knowledge; and the ear of the wise seeketh knowledge.” Proverbs 18:15. Knowledge is another piece of life we should try to obtain, cling to, and not throw away. The right kind of knowledge can keep us from getting into a lot of trouble. Knowledge will release us from being pulled aside by those who don’t understand a walk with God.

Be happy and forget about “things” in your life. “For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” Luke 13:34.

Please scroll down and leave your comments about “things” in your life. Are you one of those people who have no qualms about throwing away that scribbled picture of a puppy, which a child gave to you in a sincere moment of love, and placed on your refrigerator door? It’s the picture with ten magnets holding it firmly in place. I saw it at your house last week. I would have filed it … somewhere.

Now, back to cleaning out another closet ….








The yearning to be a mother kept her sitting on an old egg. The fluffy black bantam was steadfast in resisting the urge to get off the nest. When she did give in and get up, she wasted little time pecking at feed, getting a drink, and settling herself over the tiny brown egg. After a week, I removed the egg for candling. It was plain to see. There would be no hatchling but I gave the egg back to her. I hated to see her disappointed. So, I fixed the situation—at least, I hoped to bring about a happy conclusion.

I headed for a nearby, small town and a feed store I had seen on the main road. When I got there, I was appalled at the condition of the place. The area where they housed the baby chicks, ducks, assorted chickens, and rabbits was deplorable. I did not attempt to find the cage with baby chicks, but beat a hasty retreat from the flies and slimy mess covering the concrete floor under the crowded cages. Throwing caution to the wind, I asked a teenage boy—sporting a wad of tobacco in his cheek—to get me one chick. I was determined I wouldn’t go home empty-handed. My hen had to be rewarded for her diligence.

The teen brought me a box with a reddish brown chick in it. He told it was supposed to be a brown-legged something—I didn’t catch the name.

As soon as I got home, I headed out to the hen’s cage. Ignoring the waves of misgivings crowding my thoughts, I held the chick’s beak shut so it couldn’t chirp, pushed it under the hen’s wing, and slipped out the bad egg.


The hen turned her head, tipped it sideways, and stared at the brown chick poking its head out from under her black plumage. Over a week old, the little chick had the beginnings of wing feathers—she wasn’t a new hatchling, by any means. The chick shut her eyes and her head sank to the pine shavings in the box. She acted exhausted. I feared a sickness would soon present itself and the tiny bird would die. Not sure if the hen would accept it and not sure if I had done a smart thing, I walked away from the cage—not wanting to witness what might immediately happen.

Hours went by and I kept a close check on the biddy and hen. I watched as the hen used her beak to peck at the young chick, making it jerk awake, stagger to its feet, and chirp. I held my breath, trying to judge if the hen was being mean, getting ready to kill the baby, or acting helpful. The hen took her sharp curved beak, which could kill the chick with one jab, and acted like she was cleaning the baby’s fuzzy feathers, and she continued to nudge it when it dozed off.

Many times, I checked and worried needlessly. She never got up off the nest, only ruffled her feathers, and clucked a warning when I came near. The chick clearly understood her new mama and responded by burrowing under the black wing, hiding from view.

Early the next morning I stood beside the cage and watched the hen pecking at food. She scratched and softly clucked to the adopted baby. After running up under the hen’s neck, the brown biddy pecked where the hen persistently tapped with her bill. Lesson number one was in progress—there’s food here, come watch me. Then mama hen spotted me and she sounded a warning cluck. Danger! Mind me, get under my wing. I’ll protect you as one of my own. You’re in my care now. You’ve been adopted and accepted—with no reservations. You’re fluffy and brown, too old to be my hatchling, and my black feathers don’t match yours, but you’re the one I’ll fight for.


I couldn’t help but think how we, as humans, may have our beginnings in mire and nasty surroundings, separated from anyone who would try to love us or rescue us. God plucks us out of places where others fear to even walk and dirty their feet or hands. We aren’t considered worth much—maybe we’re just a brown-legged something—no real title or name.

God cleans us up, not stopping to estimate the danger of the filth covering us. With no reservation, we’re sheltered under his mighty, unmatched wing of grace. We are urged and directed to stand up and overcome our weaknesses. He loves us and wants us come to the realization that we belong to him. We’re one of the adopted but treated as a real son or daughter. If we pay attention, God teaches us with his wisdom and shows us the best way to find spiritual nourishment and living water. But in all things, we must pay attention, accept his gift, and run to do his bidding.

Do you sometimes feel like a brown-legged something?  🙂


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