My favorite pair of boots has two very noticeable scuffs. I wear them anyway. This is no small thing.
There was a long time, mostly throughout my teens and twenties, when I was afraid to use what I had. I would buy new things and promptly put them away. I was afraid of brand-new sweaters pilling and fraying, brand-new lipglosses wearing down to nubs, the soles of brand-new shoes losing their traction. When I bought new books, I did everything I could not to bend their spines. Dog-ear the pages to hold my place? Not on your life, and heaven help anyone who dog-eared a page of any of my books. In the early years of our marriage, my husband joked that we had soaps we couldn’t wash our hands with, and towels we couldn’t dry them on. Sadly, this wasn’t far from the truth.
There’s just something about newness.
But here’s the thing about newness — it wears off. Dust collects, moths congregate, and time passes. Precious time. New minutes are doled out every sixty seconds, and new hours every sixty minutes.
But what about the ones that are never used? What happens to them, I wonder?
Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. — Matt. 6:19-20 (NIV)