Packing light

Jesus told his disciples: “Take nothing for the journey—no staff, no bag, no bread, no money, no extra shirt.” Nowadays you get 50 pounds.

Which is both a lot and practically nothing. For instance, a person could take unlimited underwear. But you don’t need to take unlimited underwear because underwear’s easy to wash in the hotel sink. Jeans, sweaters, not so much. It can be done, but it’s not pretty. So one pair of jeans for three weeks and hope against hope for a coin-op laundry?

Similarly, socks pack real well. They fill in the cracks between everything else and can even be packed inside shoes. But shoes take up a lot of room and weight. So, the question becomes, how many shoes do I need for all those socks?

The truth is I have too much stuff. Because I like stuff. Stuff is my security blanket. Stuff grants the illusion that I am in control. I like to have the right stuff for whatever comes and that translates into a whole lot of stuff for a three week trip, stuff for rainy weather, stuff in case it’s warm, stuff for the almost certainty that it won’t be warm, stuff for hiking, stuff for the beach, stuff for the pub, stuff for the remote possibility that we eat somewhere other than a pub, stuff for church, stuff for country, stuff for town, stuff, stuff, stuff, stuff, stuff.

And then of course, there’s the camera, the iPad, the portable, packable keyboard, and books, guidebooks, prayer books, the latest Janet Evanovich. My friend gave me a beautiful Bible for my sabbatical. I love it. It feels so good in my hands. The leather cover, the glorious paper, the beautiful typeset inside. I don’t want to leave it home.  

It’s a lot of stuff, which I don’t have the room or the weight to pack.

Jesus said take nothing for the journey. I’m not there yet—probably won’t ever be. But in the spirit and discipline of sabbatical, this time I’m letting go and traveling light. The shoes on my feet and a pair in the suitcase. The iPad loaded with books in my purse; the Bible stays home. 

Which leaves room in my suitcase for my pillow.

Dude—get serious. I’m not traveling that light. The pillow goes.