Tiny houses. Tree houses. Shipping containers. I have been totally absorbed watching tv shows on the minimalist movement since they have shown up in my streaming-service-of-choice. I watch in fascination and even envy as I see entire wardrobes fit into a corner cabinet, a kitchen nestled into the underside of stairs. Tiny stoves and murphy beds. A smattering of kitschy personal touches. A miniature porch with a lot of personality. I wonder for a half second: could we manage that?
Nope.
The feat of all six of us sharing a tiny house doesn’t make me cringe: it’s the knowledge that my book collection will slowly crush the innards of the structure. If you were to come to our house, Dear Reader, you may not notice the extent of my book obsession right away. There are a couple of unassuming bookshelves in my living room (called my Sanctuary to discourage any malingering toys or other detritus from taking up either temporary or permanent residence), and another couple of bookshelves flanking the television in the family room (also called the classroom to discourage disruptive video-streaming during the weekday). Each bedroom has a bookshelf crammed with books appropriate for the age and interests of the resident of each room, and there’s a small shelf in the hallway, hardly noticeable and filled with my husband’s collection of lovely hard-covered books for his ministry as a deacon: the Order of Baptism and of Holy Matrimony. The Book of Blessings. Canon Law for Dummies. I tuck my own books into the kids’ shelves, hoping no one will notice: Nancy Drew in my daughter’s room, although she will never actually have any interest in reading them; Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing and Castle in the Attic in my youngest son’s room although he is long past the intended age and never picked them up when he was. Sometimes I get a win which justifies my book habit: my daughter continues to consume my beloved Baby-sitters Club and Anne of Green Gables, and my oldest son had a hankering for Edgar Allan Poe one glorious autumn. None of this even includes the reference books, curricula, and all of the other materials required for home education and research papers. I even kept—and indexed—years’ worth of Muse and Cobblestone magazine issues. And Catholic Answers. Of course. Science kits and craft supplies are abundant, and construction toys and board games reign supreme. You need a balance scale? Microscope? Feathers? Sequins? Wooden planks? Lego? Scotland Yard? Got it. I came to terms long ago that my interest and curiosity in tiny living and the minimalist movement will just have to stay theoretical.
Enter March. And Lent.
My husband decided that, since we have to recarpet our basement following last November’s sewer catastrophe, perhaps we ought to go ahead and replace the carpet in the whole house since it’s close to 20 years old and showing wear. So exciting, right?! It did not occur to me that, in order to replace the carpet…one must empty each room. No couches. No tables. No beds, dressers, guitar cases. No bookcases. In the closets? Clear the floors. For the entire house. The realization of the enormity of this accidental project was punctuated by the fact that my husband is still recovering from another back surgery: while he cannot help physically, he can offer us his presence and his advice, which is invaluable (although perhaps our older teens may have a different perspective).
I was selfishly…unenthused…by the prospect of moving everything out of the house; it’s an overwhelming and staggering job. My dad dropped off a hand truck and offered his garage for storage, my father-in-law brought a stack of cardboard boxes every time he stopped by and collected bed frames to fix and a table to build. My daughter boxed up all the books in the family room and carted the labeled boxes out to the garage. She wrangled “the brothers” and directed them in helping her carry out bookshelves. Each day, she awoke and announced the family project for the day: today, we are all cleaning out our closets! Today, we are packing up the books in the Sanctuary! Today we are switching beds around! Hauling out desks. Dragging out Lego bins. (So. Many. Legos.) As the house emptied of furniture and belongings, the more and more…at peace…we all began to feel. Soon the kids started to add to the table of “give away” items in a corner of the garage. In the evenings, we collapsed on the remaining couches and arm chairs and admired the lack of objects in the rooms. More than a few of us declared: “I don’t want to bring it all back in!”
Finding many, many (many!) years’ worth of dried palm crosses; rosaries tucked into random nook and crannies; forgotten snapshots of life events; nerf bullets; and little toys (stolen, hidden, and forgotten by sneaky siblings) felt like a game and offered bright moments in an otherwise mundane task. Our brothers, brothers-in-law, and even adult nephew turned out en masse to help with the move out and back in, which was an unexpected and much appreciated blessing.
The result?
An organized home populated with furniture and most of the book shelves. The garage is still filled with boxes of books, outgrown-but-precious toys, and all the things that we aren’t missing at the moment, and a resounding refrain of “one box at a time!” When we moved into our home 17 years ago, it felt vast. With just two toddlers, our possessions and needs were very different. Now with four kids, the youngest a middle-schooler, our needs have changed drastically. Re-imagining the way our house functions to serve our current needs frees us to do the things most important to us. A Lent of unexpected cleaning and moving and painting and a host of chores has yielded a bright, clean home in time for the Easter Season of renewal and celebration. He is Risen, Alleluia!
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