Recently I read an intriguing story about a family that fell in love with and renovated an old home. Before they bought it, a hoarder had occupied the house, and the author gave a fascinating account of what they discovered while cleaning up the debris. (Read my review of House Lessons: Renovating a Life by Erica Bauermeister here).

As I lay in bed one night, absorbed in the story, this line jumped out at me: "All of us tend to feel responsible for the things we bring into our lives – they help define our identities, give us a feeling of safety, and create a sense of personal history."*

Pausing to consider this insight, I let my eyes wander over the book to the sweater chest opposite my bed. On top of the bulky cabinet was a large stack of paintings by my children, gathering dust. Inside the chest were twenty years of pictures tucked into boxes. And beside it, on the floor, was a plastic bin filled with most of the cards and letters I'd ever received.

I mentally began cataloging the other things I had saved and wondered why I kept them. What did my treasured objects say about me? Was there a spiritual element to my sentimental stockpiles that deserved consideration? Were they, as Bauermeister suggested, part of my identity? Did they provide a sense of safety somehow, insulating me from feeling the loss of the things they represented?

Most people hoard something – coins, clothes, or, lately, toilet paper, but hoarding as a clinical disorder is a painful struggle characterized by extreme excess – a tendency to collect things others might view as useless to the degree that interferes with relationships, cleanliness, and safety. Although I don’t keep an excessive amount of anything, I save some useless things (like the dog tags of my childhood pet, a ceramic doll my mom painted when I was little, and a shell my son handed me on a beach in Florida before he left for college).

I may not be a hoarder, but I am very sentimental, and releasing items that remind me of special times, people, or parts of my life can be difficult. It is hard to part with physical objects that carry emotional content. Many items I have chosen to hang onto feel like threads connecting me to seasons and people I don't want to release. Does that mean they offer a weird form of security like children’s attachment objects, such as a stuffed dog to college to remind one of home? Am I carrying physical items from each season to comfort myself in the next? Maybe. I kept a cracked candle holder for the longest time because it was a gift from my sister, who died in 2010.

The leftover objects of my children reveal my most significant area of weakness. As the kids grow up and leave home, a long and remarkable chapter in the book of my life is ending. Keeping little pieces of my past with them allows me to retain a few drops of the fullness I have enjoyed. When my youngest son left for college, he and I spent an hour pulling out everything in his “keepsake bin.” We laughed, reminisced, and connected over our shared history pieces. I don’t want to part with those reminders right now – I can only say goodbye to so much at once.

Every day, the minutes of our lives rush past, moving into the shadows of our personal history, lost except for memories stored and trinkets saved, which we call up or hold in our hands to reminisce. Maybe I'm like a squirrel gathering nuts for the winter, hiding away little nuggets of psychological comfort in the form of keepsakes to feed myself in leaner seasons.

As I wrote this, it started snowing – giant, fluffy puffs raining down from the sky. It made me think of the manna God sent down from Heaven to feed the Israelites while they wandered in the desert. He gave them explicit instructions not to hoard it - telling them to trust His daily provision – and not to store it up because it would rot.

Thinking about God’s warning to not manna-hoard was a good reminder that these items I keep are just sentimental leftovers of what He’s given me in life. The physical remnants of my past - crumbs from the sweetest parts of my years - are good for sparking smiles as I remember. And they often serve as lightning rods of gratitude. But holding onto these reminders too tightly or keeping so many that they crowd out my space and time, preventing me from fully living in the present, is wrong. I don't want to spend my life worrying that my heart will break if they are lost or destroyed.

Spiritually, the thing I want to hold onto the tightest is the one I will never lose. I want the assurance of God’s presence and the promise of my future with Him to comfort me more than any trinket reminding me of the gifts He’s given in the past. I don’t want my sense of self and contentment to be too wrapped up in my home, husband, children, experiences, work, or remembrances of those gifts. I want my identity and security to come from knowing I am God’s. Even as the seasons of my life move into the rearview mirror, and even if I lose their tangible evidence, I am safe, my identity is unchanging, and I will receive my daily portion of comfort.

Still, the things I hoard are lovely and sweet reminders of the earthly and human treasures of my life. Although God may be nudging me to keep them in proper perspective, as long as my loves are ordered correctly, I think it's okay to hold on to some loosely. Because it’s not the “stuff” I am hoarding – it’s the memories evoked – of people I’ve loved, children I’ve raised, places I’ve been. The keepsakes can't rise to a position of giving emotional security, but they can serve as reminders of the greatest gifts in my life and cause me always to be thankful to the giver. And, as Bauermeister said, they are part of my personal history. When I re-visit them, holding them in my hand and reflecting, my gratitude produces joy. And that is something worth hoarding.

Do you find yourself holding onto things more tightly than you would like? What kinds of mementos are you drawn to saving, and what do these items reveal about your heart?

*Bauermeister, Erica, House Lessons: Renovating a Life (Seattle: Sasquatch Books, 2020), 57.