Here's the rest of the chapter titled Letting Go, in first draft.

It ain't me, it ain't me
I'm no millionaire's son
It ain't me, it ain't me
I ain't no fortunate one
                                                                                                Fortunate Son – John Fogerty


So who is rich? When I looked up the definition in my Merriam Webster Collegiate Dictionary, I had to laugh. The first definition given is "Having abundant possessions." Translated into everyday language that means, "Having a lot of stuff." Consider me rich. I know I am a fortunate one.
People hang on to things for many different reasons. Sorting through my things, I come across objects that make me smile when I pick them up. They are awash in wonderful memories. That's especially true if it is something that belonged to a person I loved. In themselves, the objects may have no monetary value, but they are a connection to a loved one, long gone. It's the love that remains that gives them value. When my grandfather Rasmussen had to go into a nursing home with his wife and their house had to be sold, the family sorted through all the furniture and other possessions that they couldn't take along with them. There were marble-topped wash stands, old cherry furniture, an old wind-up Victrola and many other treasured items that were quickly claimed. Sorting through what was left over, I chose my grandfather's old railroad pocket watch and his hammer. The watch didn't work, and the hammer was so badly worn that it was nearly useless. But they were my grandfather's. They meant enough to him to keep them all those years, so they mean a lot to me. My mother kept the bible her mother bought for her as a Christmas present when my mother was eleven years old. They never shared that last Christmas. Shortly before Christmas my grandmother died on the operating table. It was a tearful Christmas and the bible was the last thing my mother received from her mother to remember her by. She treasured that bible even though it was falling apart. I felt blessed when my mother finally gave it to me.
        "All that I have is my grandfather's hammer                                                                                          
        And his old railroad watch with the casing all worn
       And the bible my grandmother bought her last Christmas
         That she gave to my mother, now she's passed it on."                                                                     
                                                                                             Handful of Songs by Jerry Rasmussen
        Some things we keep are a reminder of hard-learned lessons. Not all memories are good, but even those that aren't have their value. They remind us of where we've come from and what we've gone through.

        Perhaps the commonest reason why we keep so much is because it is such an unpleasant job sorting through the mountains of accumulated possessions. When people see my old toys, or old tins they say, "I didn't know you were a collector." I usually answer, "I'm not a collector. Collectors build collections and try to make them complete. I'm an accumulator." The older you get the more you've accumulated, and it's just too much work trying to sort it out. That's the kind of job that we're always going to get to tomorrow. Tomorrow never comes.
                                
        There's another insidious reason why we resist throwing things away. We don't like to deal with change. Especially when we get older, getting rid of things feels like we are getting rid of a part of our lives. Someone who hasn't read a book in years is likely to say, "I've always been a reader. I might want to read those books again." Old records and cassettes languish on the shelves that haven't been played in years. I know these things because I have books lining shelves that I know I'll never read again. Life slips by without our noticing it and suddenly we realize that we haven't looked at books that lie there gathering dust or listened to cassettes whose cases are glazed over with years of accumulated dust. There's a comfort in being surrounded by old stuff.

        In the last years when my parents were alive when I was able to get home to visit they'd have their lists firmly rooted in their minds. "I'm not driving anymore," Dad would say. Each passing year was marked by the things they had to let go. It about killed my dad when he and mom moved into a retirement complex. Dad kept everything. My nephews were helping him move, and while dad was coming around one corner of the house with a wheelbarrow full of old tools and odds and ends, one on my nephews would be disappearing around the other side of the house, taking the stuff my dad brought in the previous load and putting it back in the basement. Finally, dad was so distraught that he just sat on the curb with his chin resting in his hands.

        The best lesson my parents taught me in their last years was that letting go of old things is making room for new blessings. As Christ pointed out,
"And no man putteth new wine into old bottles; else the new wine will burst the bottles, and be spilled and the bottles shall perish.
But new wine must be put into new bottles; and both are preserved." Luke 5:37-38
We limit our blessings by living in the past clinging to old glories, too fearful to confidently step into the future. The more we are liberated from our past, the more we can welcome Jesus into our heart. We certainly don't want him to have to climb over a stack of old boxes in order to get in.
              
Jerry

Want any old 8 tracks?