Although it is technically one month and one day until the formal retirement, my handy-dandy retirement calculator app tells me that I have twenty-seven work days left. And it is really far less as I will be taking off the last two days of the month and at least an extra day after Christmas. Not to mention that the movers will be here in 18 days, so I suspect I shall not be at work that day either.
I’m extremely restless today–know I should be sorting and cleaning out more things, but find little energy for the task. This past week has been an emotional/spiritual high for me and I guess I’m just coming down.
We get to announce the newly appointed pastor tomorrow and I’m so exceedingly pleased about the decision the Cabinet has made.
Plus, in a convergence of things that happen only in God’s timing, never, ever in mine, an overwhelmingly large (and unexpected) offering last Sunday means that the new pastor will be able to start that appointment standing on a solid financial base. It takes such pressure off to know that, as the church does throb with life–but has been greatly stretched financially recently, and not for lack of generous giving.
So, after a few hours of real immobility, I finally roused myself to another book sorting task. I’ve already cleaned out the books at my office and brought home what I wanted to keep, but had not tackled the home library.
An hour of sorting filled these sacks and they will definitely go. I’ve made arrangements with the library in Krum for them to find good homes. I part with them with some pain, but felt that I could bear that loss.
It’s the rest I’m still wrestling with. It really doesn’t look like I’ve made a dent in them. The shelves will go with me to the new residence, but they’ll also have to accommodate the books from my office.
I look at these and remind myself again how much I am my mother’s daughter. She, too, could not rid herself of books.
Recently, I took a friend who has a great eye for small spaces and furniture arrangement to look at the apartment I’ll be renting. We didn’t see the actual apartment, but one in the same layout whose occupant may very well be in the interior design field. As we wandered through that perfectly appointed space, I thought, “Well, mine will never look like this.” The first thing I noticed: not one book in the entire apartment. I, on the other hand, will be somewhat buried in them.
And that is who I am, so I may as well quit fighting it.
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