Trouble Trading

I remember in a dream walking up to a huge, old fashioned lodge in the woods.  It was as if I was in the middle of nowhere and this big log building was beautiful and rustic, set appropriately in age old pine trees which whispered all around it.

The hand carved sign dug in the weathered board over the door read, "The Trouble Trading Post".

There was absolutely no sign of life here and the door was ajar.  It seemed to be the sort of place that people visited and left as quickly as they came.

I walked in to find a room larger than the outside of the building would make a person imagine.  It was wide open from back to front, end to end.  There were wooden pegs protruding from the rough logs and many held coats.  Some looked dated as though they had hung there on the walls for centuries.  Others were new showing little or no sign of wear.

There were no signs on the walls, no direction, no people to answer questions.  The minute I entered I understood what this place was all about.

People came to this place to shed their problems.  They took off the coats that they wore in and placed them on an empty peg.  These coats were the problems of people who entered and left them behind.  It seemed to good to be true.  Leaving my burdens behind was as simple as taking off my own coat and hanging it on a wall, . . . almost.

If a person wore a coat in they had to wear one when they left.

I removed my coat, grateful to be able to trade my problems for my life held considerable obstacles.  I secured it on a peg and looked for something more attractive to me.  Immediately I saw a beautiful coat that looked to be my size.  It looked to have little wear.  I tried it on.  It fit perfectly.  As I walked away I fumbled through the pockets and found a note there.  It read, "cancer".  The meaning was clear.  This coat came with this problem.  I didn't want that.  I did not face that myself - it was not on my list of personal difficulties.  I returned the coat to it's place and continued looking.

Another coat caught my eye.  It was a buckskin jacket, soft and supple to the touch.  I had always wanted a jacket made of buckskin.  It too fit perfectly.  As I rummaged through the pockets, I found another slip of paper.  This one read, "divorce".  My marriage was a gift from God.  It had been the one solid unchanging thing in my life.  My wife of 29 years was hopelessly devoted to me.  The thought of losing her in a trouble exchange was frightening.  The bukskin came off quickly.  As I reset it on the hook, I shuddered at the possibility that I would ever face such a problem.

Coat after coat contained problems beyond my willingness to accept or exchange.  After several more attempts, I began to rflect on my own set of problems which by now were seeming less and much more manageable.  As a matter of fact, I was beginning to find a great sense of gratitude for the wonderful blessings that life had brought me.  I was beginning to wonder if I was wasting my time in this place.

And then the shock of awareness ripped through me.  "What if someone else comes in and finds my coat?  What if my set of problems looks good and they walk away with the coat that I wore into the trading post?"

I almost gasped aloud as I turned.  The room was still empty.  There at the far end of the room I was sure that I could see my own coat.  I ran to it for fear that someone else would beat me there.  My coat was obviously one of the most desirable on the wall.  I grabbed the coat from the wall and threw myself into it's familiar embrace.  Not only was the fit familiar but it had been worn and weathered to my own body.  It was creased where my arms bent.  It was worn and weathered and even patched from past mishaps.

I never looked back as I left that day.  I have never had a single day when I have wanted to return to repeat the imaginary exercise.  Everyday I see people in beautiful apparel all around me.  They come and they go.  Sometimes I think that I woudl like to find a garment as nice as some that I see worn about.  And then I wonder what their pockets contain and I hug myself, wrapping the old garment tightly around me.  I reach in my own pockets and I empty them from the clutter that they tend to collect - the things that I put in there each time I complain, or worry, or fret.  I am blessed above all broken men.