Chad tells me the story that when Mother Teresa was alive, living among the poor and the sick and the dirty, she clawed for the bottom.

Not only did she pour out her life among the dead and dying, the lowest and the least, but when the boxes of donated clothes and shoes came for her group, instead of pushing to the front of the line to find the “best of the worst”, she fought to the front of the line for the worst of the worst.

She chose the shoes that were

the most worn out

the dirtiest

with the thinnest soles

{the ones that were probably many sizes too big for her tiny feet}

so that others would have better than her.

What if we all clawed for the bottom? What if, in our relationships and in our jobs and in our accomplishments we pushed to the front of the line to be the last?

What if I, in my writing or in my career, let others be first and better and even the best? If I just didn’t ALLOW it, but if I worked as hard at being at the bottom as I have worked up to this point at being at the top?

I might just find the richest relationships in the “least” of society. I might find the peace in the simplicity of the here and the now and I might just find the most amazing joy in the journey of it all.

Clawing for the bottom of the shoe pile: I don’t think its some far off thing that only Mother Teresa and Jesus might accomplish, wearing the least and the dirtiest. I think its something we can have now.

By finding the least, you find the best, I believe. By embracing the dirtiest, the poorest, the ones who have

absolutely nothing to offer you,

You embrace Jesus.

“So what is THIS post going to be about, Sarah?”

He asked me under the fluorescent light of our rented garage as we used the evening hours to prepare for an upcoming yard sale. I picked up a large plastic container and opened it.

“It smells like beer in this box.” I sniffed as I replaced the lid and moved it to the stack of “keep” boxes.

Chad laughed. “Beer?”

I sniffed again. “I actually think it’s all the plastic things shut up for so long. It stinks!” The toys and Tupperware smelled faintly like the fermented scent of beer. These boxes had been stacked against one wall of our garage since February.

“This post? I’m not writing a post about this. This is pure survival. Nothing to be learned here.” I smelled another beer-box. This can’t be healthy, I think.

“Of course you will. You’ll find something to glean from this Sarah.”

And maybe I have. What began as a foray into Fall Cleaning became a trip through time and memories and lost yoga mats. I stood dwarfed by stacks of cardboard moving boxes and large see-through containers and I realized I wasn’t going to get it all done tonight. This was a bigger job than I’d imagined.

“Can we call it a night?” I heard my husband’s voice from behind a wall of cardboard.

“Are you okay with us leaving all of these stacks like this?” I asked him. “It will be like this until we get it done.”

He pushed one more box to its place and nodded.

And so we shut off the light and reentered the house with boxes askew and piles of treasures for the garage sale scouts. It looked messier than when we’d begun.

Cleaning out my garage is a monumental task that, even as I write this post, still isn’t done.  I’ve been spending my days doing the daily tasks that make the wheels of my household turn well: washing dishes, folding laundry, cleaning up the clutter that the daily mail introduces. I haven’t organized cupboards or drawers; most of them are catch-alls for things I don’t have time to find a place for.

Basically, for the past 9 months in this home, I’ve just been trying to survive. But as I weeded through the past and uncovered boxes of oh-my-gosh-that’s-where-the-beach-towels-went I wondered if doing the monumental task wasn’t what was necessary for true survival.

I’d almost been prophetic when I suggested Chad earlier that “this was survival.” Because it is.

Tackling the hard things. Taking the time to look at the big places in my life that need change. Climbing the mountains of forgiveness and grace. Those are the things that may not be finished in a day or a night under fluorescent lights, but those are the things that are important.

I’m wondering if a good fall cleaning isn’t just important to my garage and home organization skills, but if a good fall cleaning might be just as important to my heart. It might be messier for a few weeks. It might be painful and dusty and hard to accomplish. And it might not look perfect when it’s done, but it really is important.

So yes, dear Chad, I did find a post from our dusty, spider-ridden, beer-smelling evening in the garage.

Do you avoid difficult things? What about difficult relationship or personal growth things? What makes you tackle something hard?

Empathy goes against my grain sometimes.

When I’m focused.

When I’m trying to get something done {read Type A, Goal-Oriented}.

When I’m on a mission.

I really don’t want to stop and try to feel with you. Or with my husband or with my kids. Or with my friends. But at the heart of of me, when I give myself the grace to slow down and really breathe, my heart beats with emotions of others.

And in a way I wonder if that is how we stay human: to allow the feelings of others to affect us deeply.

On Empathy: Our Griefs and Sorrows

The closest I’ve every personally been to death was when my grandfather died in 1985. He died in Indiana while I was a ten year old in California.

And then when my grandmother died ten years later, I struggled to feel healthy grief when that happened because I’d had such a complicated relationship with her. Even so, I wish she was here to see my girls.

I know this makes me a bit of an anomaly, having skirted grief and loss like I have. Most of us have lost someone or something dear. Very dear.

Maybe we’ve miscarried.

Or lost a father.

Or we’ve seen a sister die unexpectedly.

Or maybe we’ve survived a spouse.

I know. I’m odd. I’ve not had someone close to me, very close to me, die.

But in the past few months I’ve had people very close to me lose someone very close to them. {And we’ve all lost a dear sister.} I’ve grieved by proxy and I’ve grieved from afar. I have made phone calls and sent cards and baked bread. Tears still fall. Wounds still smart…

To read the rest, click here.