You know how when you move from one house to another, it all starts out in an organized fashion. We box up things in an orderly fashion, close and tape them up, and carefully label the cartons, identifying the contents inside.

And then all hell breaks loose.

As moving day grows closer, the stacks of neatly labeled boxes are hidden by the ones with the dreaded MISC. scribbled hastily on the side.

Unpacking at the new home, boxes are opened in an organized fashion, and tucked away in their new location. But no matter how carefully we culled our belongings at the previous house, there are so many things that no longer fit the lives we now have. And so, as we unbox, we begin to fill up other boxes of things that no longer serve us, or perhaps never did. Some go to friends and family, others to the Goodwill, and still others to the dump. Then we get to those dreaded MISC. boxes filled with a mishmash of who knows what. I’ve never had the courage to do it, but I am always tempted to not even open them and just take them directly to the Goodwill.

This familiar scenario is fresh on my mind as we’ve spent the afternoon helping my sister and her husband unpack at their beautiful new home. The stack of boxes headed elsewhere is growing, and their load is lightening.

(Un) boxing doesn’t just apply to our physical stuff, but to our personal “stuff” too. Stories that no longer serve us, or perhaps never did, and issues we’d rather not face, get thrown into a box marked MISC., stuck on a shelf, and take up unnecessary space.

(Un) Boxing Day anyone?