Captain Reverend Mother

Every last one of them, gone. HDMI, RCA, VGA, coaxial, the remote control with no matching device, a Nokia AC/DC power adapter for a phone we had during the Bush administration, and one tangle that might have belonged to the VCR we last used during Obama’s.

I reached in like the claw from Toy Story—decisive, a little triumphant—and dropped the whole mess into a Cheesecake Factory bag. Extra plastic bags are hard to come by, so it was a perk this one was strong. That is was a to-go bag felt right. Vessels sometimes don’t need to be beautiful, they just need to hold the weight, just long enough to carry it out.

Twenty-five years of cords and chargers and connectors, moved from house to house, state to state. Gone.

All of us have a drawer like that. Ours was in the top drawer of the secretary desk, the black hole for technological miscellany. Progress comes in waves.

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The cables sat in that drawer as if evidence from a crime scene. Each one told a story. The phone charger from when we lived in that apartment where Clint Eastwood filmed a scene in In the Line of Fire. The connector from our first digital camera, back when we printed pictures at Walgreens and thought we were being fancy. The TS adapter from the electric bass guitar our oldest son promised he was going to play and never touched. It was a Radio Shack morgue where good intentions and ninety-nine cent adapters went to die.

One thing about military life is I often get to reflect on why I would rather carry forty pounds of maybe-useful junk than admit I might not need it all? Why would I rather strain my back with old cables than face the possibility that some things can simply be released?

I used to keep a bag of bags. There were the thin plastic ones from the grocery store, banned now, though perfect for dog duty. Brown paper bags worked well for cooling cookies and soaking up the extra butter. The glossy ones from brand-name stores sturdy enough to hold the Goodwill donations. That habit ended about ten years ago when I was packing for a move and saw the movers packing a box with nothing but bags. The cables stayed longer. Some attachments take their time.

My cable situation reminds me of preparing for Passover. Orthodox Jews spend weeks before Passover hunting down every trace of leavened bread (chametz). They search with candles and feathers, checking coat pockets for forgotten crackers, flipping couch cushions for crumbs, digging through school backpacks for smashed granola bars. My friend Naomi told me her mother once found a piece of cereal stuck to the bottom of a winter boot. Nothing escapes the search. Every last crumb must go.

The Cheesecake Factory bag held more than cables. It held choices made and unmade, connections severed and briefly restored. I brought it home last month after a dinner celebrating a colleague’s promotion. We stayed late, ate more than we needed, and I carried home a dessert for my spouse (since I am no longer blessed with the ability to eat cheesecake myself). The bag was built for multiple use. Now it carried away my small exodus.

Sometimes I think being prepared is its own kind of belief. A quiet faith that sneaks in during ordinary moments. I confuse being ready with being in control more than I would like to admit. My cable collection was some weird insurance policy. Keep them and stay safe. Toss them and tempt the gods of technology. Now that they are gone, I keep waiting for the universe to notice and send me some ancient device that only works with a mini-USB from 2003.

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The drive to the Goodwill bin took ten minutes. The cleanup, maybe ten seconds. The decision, though, about ten years. I am still unwinding the harder part: loosening my grip on the version of myself who always needed a fallback plan. She kept extra everything—cables, chargers, reasons. She believed that preparedness was love. That if she could just stay connected, nothing would break beyond repair. Maybe she was right for her time. Maybe she carried me as far as she could.

Jesus talked about this constantly. Do not worry about tomorrow. Consider the lilies. That God already knows what we need. Those words sound lovely on Sunday morning. Tuesday afternoon is different. The future feels murky, and the drawer stays full of tangled maybes.

Small releases teach us about big ones. Empty hands can hold what full ones cannot. The space we make by letting go becomes the place where grace shows up with gifts we never saw coming.

The mystics call this kenosis, which is just a fancy word for making room for God. Might just mean cleaning out the junk drawer with the same thoroughness that Jewish families bring to searching for chametz. Going deeper than the obvious. Checking the corners. Getting the lint. Finding every last crumb.

I used to think holding on was faithful. Really, faithful is opening our hands. The cables served their purpose, connected what needed connecting, carried signals across the distances that mattered. Now they will do the same work elsewhere, for someone else who needs exactly what I was ready to release.

The cheesecake bag is gone too. The space it helped create remains. Next time I open the secretary drawer, I will find space. Still empty, still ready. I will see room for what might come rather than evidence of what has been. That might be the most honest prayer I know.