A tube of toothpaste used to last me forever, or so it seemed. Now, it feels like I’m adding a new tube to my cart every time I visit the grocery aisle. Boxes of cereal, while still appearing substantial on the shelf, often conceal a lamentably small bag within, with the contents vanishing long before the week is out. Then again, the sheer size of modern chicken breasts has become almost comical, far exceeding what feels like a reasonable single portion. It truly makes one wonder about the decision-making process behind what constitutes an “average family’s” consumption, pushing us toward either bulk quantities that verge on excessive or portions so meager they barely suffice.
My growing frustrations with modern packaging and the supersizing of basic food items likely stem from my age and background. I belong to a generation raised on principles of frugality and resourcefulness. We were taught to clean our plates, understanding that any leftovers would reappear the next day, perhaps in a lunchbox. There was a respect for every morsel and every possession. Torn pants weren’t discarded; they were patched. Holy socks were darned, and worn-out shoes found new life at the local cobbler, receiving new soles and heels. This wasn’t just about saving money; it was about honoring the life and utility of everything we owned, a practical expression of stewardship woven into the fabric of daily life.
Today, this deeply ingrained ethos often clashes with the prevailing culture of consumerism and disposability. The market incentivizes constant purchasing, whether through subtle reductions in product volume (often termed “shrinkflation”) or by offering items in disproportionately large or small quantities, making it challenging to buy only what’s genuinely needed. This imbalance often leads to unintended waste, both of product and of the resources used to produce and package it.
I find myself in a constant tension: deeply grateful for the abundances in my life, yet simultaneously ashamed of the excesses that accompany them. The promises I make to myself—to do better, to consume less, to be more mindful—are too often forgotten amidst the convenience. While these aspirations often align with environmental movements, the deeper, more profound motivation for me lies in the call to be God’s stewards. This isn’t just about ecological preservation; it’s a spiritual imperative to care for creation and to manage the gifts we’ve been given with wisdom and reverence. In this regard, I have often fallen short of my responsibilities.
Ultimately, these everyday observations about toothpaste, cereal, and chicken breasts serve as reminders. They are not merely annoyances about changing product sizes but symptoms of a larger societal shift that often runs counter to the enduring values of mindful consumption and responsible stewardship. Recognizing this struggle, and striving to realign our daily choices with these deeper principles, becomes a continuous, humble act of faith. True stewardship isn’t about grand, sweeping gestures, but about the small, daily choices we make—the toothpaste we buy, the food we waste, the clothes we replace. My seemingly trivial frustrations are a wake-up call. They are a reminder that the values of my upbringing—frugality, resourcefulness, and a respect for what you have—are not outdated. They are more essential than ever. They are the path to living in a way that honors not just the planet, but also the divine call to be good stewards of all that we have been given.
Great one today, and not simply because I just had to open a new tube of toothpaste!