The IKEA Effect

I have a complicated relationship with IKEA.

I love how affordable their products are and they’re maddening to assemble. I’m fairly handy and not particularly prone to anger, but I have more than once yelled at the instruction manual for being unnecessarily convoluted. If you’ve ever purchased an IKEA product, you can probably relate.

Psychological research has actually demonstrated a cognitive bias that has been coined “The IKEA Effect” based on this complex relationship consumers have with IKEA products.

According to a Harvard-based study, the IKEA effect basically says that we tend to place a higher value on that which we create (be it assembling a piece of IKEA furniture, folding origami, or completing a Lego set – all examples of which were studied in this research).

This makes sense to me.

I feel a sense of ownership when I create or make or even just assemble something.

The problem, though, is that I so often feel ownership over things I need to let go. I think that because I gave it time or attention or energy I need to care about and invest in it forever.

The truth is that I’ve spent a lot of time on things that ran their course and needed to be handed over to another. I’m no longer the right person to “own” it. It was the right investment for a season but it’s not the right investment now.

I’ve also spent a lot of time on things that were never worth my time, attention, or energy, and just needed to die.

Here’s the point.

Just because you labored on something doesn’t mean it’s worth loving.

It might be.

But it might not be.

Don’t succumb to the IKEA effect. Don’t convince yourself that a relatively cheap piece of furniture is more value because you dedicated a disproportionate amount of time to assembling it.

Don’t hold onto something just because you’ve given it your time, attention, and energy. It may be time to let go.

More Practical

I am a big fan of the sitcom Modern Family.

Phil Dunphy is a fun-loving father that cares about his family more than anything. He loves them and sacrifices for them at every turn.

Then, one day, he goes with his friend Andre to a car dealership. The two admire a sleek black sports car.

Phil is just pining after this car. He wants it so badly. But he knows it’s not practical. He has three children. It doesn’t make sense.

Andre says to him, “You never hear a person on their deathbed saying, ‘I wish I’d been more practical.’”

It probably wasn’t wise for Phil to buy a sports car when he still had children at home.

But I think Andre has a point.

I’m all for being practical. I’m all for being productive. I’m all for striving to be and do more.

But the things that matter most – the things that bring color and variety to life – aren’t always practical.

I’m learning to play the mandolin. It’s not even a little bit practical. I have no intention of joining a bluegrass band. But it’s something I’ve always wanted to learn, so I am – and I’m thoroughly enjoying it.

I am rereading the Chronicles of Narnia for the seventh time. I read a couple of chapters every night before I go to bed. I know how every story ends but I still love reading them as much as I did the first time.

I cut my workday short every couple of weeks to get an early dinner with my parents. I talk to my brothers on the phone regularly. I spend a lot of time doing puzzles and coloring and playing Legos with my nieces and nephews. There’s nothing obviously practical about our time together. We’re not producing anything. But I wouldn’t trade those moments with any of them for the world.

I’m not peddling a “just do what makes you happy” bill of goods.

I’m just saying that practicality is a good servant but a terrible god.

Practicality should serve us in becoming more of who God created us to be.

But if we prize it above all else it will almost certainly make us less of who we were created to be.

Hey Patrick, It's Grandpa...

I don’t answer phone calls from numbers I don’t recognize. I figure if it’s important they’ll leave a message, and I can return it as soon as I’m able.

The last couple of weeks I’ve gotten a series of calls from Branson, Missouri. I don’t know anyone in Branson, so I didn’t answer. I assumed it was a telemarketer.

But the other night, the caller left a message.

“Hey Patrick. It’s Grandpa. I just wanted to see how you were doing. I miss you. Call me when you can. I love you. Bye.”

 I called back.

The same sweet voice that left the message on my phone answered my call.

I explained who I was and told him that, unfortunately, this was not Patrick’s number.

“Oh, thank you so much for calling, sweetie,” he said. “I was so worried that he was just too busy to talk to me anymore.”

That broke my heart.

And it convicted me.

I’ve lost most of my grandparents. But I still have parents. Siblings. Nieces and nephews. Aunts and uncles. Cousins. Friends.

I’m ashamed to admit I’ve often been “too busy” for the relationships that I say matter most to me.

I don’t want the people I love to ever feel like I’m too busy to talk to them.

No, I won’t always be able to shoot the breeze. No, I can’t always interrupt my day just to chat.

I have to have boundaries in order to do what God has called me to do. I’m not suggesting you welcome every interruption to your day. I know I can’t.

But I want to be available for relationship. I want to know how the people I love are doing. I want to be there when they need me.

Patrick didn’t know his Grandpa was trying to call.

But don’t be too busy to take that call when you get it.

And - I’m speaking more to myself than anyone here - don’t be too busy to pick up the phone and call the people you love.

Making Time for What Matters

We make time for what matters to us. Our priorities are never more apparent than when life gets busy.

 If you were to follow me around for a day, you would almost certainly be bored, but you would learn a lot about what matters to me. You would learn that there is often a difference between my “held priorities” and my “operational priorities.”

“Held priorities” are what we say matters to us.  “Operational priorities” are what we do.

So, if I say, for example, that my family matters to me, but I never call or visit them, you would rightly conclude that there is a discrepancy between my “held priorities” and my “operational priorities.” I’m saying one thing matters to me, but I’m not doing anything that would indicate that it actually does.

Think for a bit about what matters to you. Write it down. Then, pull out your calendar and ask yourself if your held priorities are operational in your life. That is, do what you say and what you do line up?

A change may be in order. It may be a big change, like pulling back on your commitments at work to make time to be with your family. It may be a small change, like waking up a half an hour earlier to exercise.

Let me share one small change I am making.

Writing matters to me. There has been a discrepancy, though. I say it matters, but I don’t do it. It is time for me to remedy that.

You can hold me to it.