I love this time of the year in central Jersey: the trees look as if God’s crayon box has exploded, garden centers offer gaily-colored chrysanthemums and aromatic hot cider, and the autumn air is as crisp as a graham cracker snapped in half. As the liturgical season of Ordinary Time draws to a close, I enjoy preparing my home for the holidays before I tackle the joys and challenges of the dawning Church year.

Last week I decided to stock up on groceries and begin shopping for Christmas gifts, giving me a perfect excuse to visit the new MegaSizeVille store in my town. A thick envelope of coupons had arrived in the mail trumpeting the long-anticipated opening of this members-only warehouse chain; formerly an abandoned auto plant, the immense concrete and steel edifice had morphed into a gleaming ode to American consumerism. 

I am no novice to the MegaSizeVille experience. In the past I have sauntered into other MegaSizeVille stores with my sister-in-law Debbie, clutching tightly to her cart as she flashed her Exclusive Membership Card to the door patrolmen. I worried my failure to make eye contact and guilty demeanor would tip off these guardians of the gate that I did not deserve to tread the same ground as the chosen few. I envisioned the employees’ discovery of my illegal presence: a shout of “Code Peon!” into their walkie-talkies, the klaxon call of “Interloper! Interloper!” sounding as a net dropped from the ceiling to ensnare me, then exile to the Land of Regular Sizes. This time, I vowed, I would pay the MegaSizeVille membership fee and strut in legitimately to amass my own supply of items in vast quantities.

After paying the fee and getting my picture taken, I reviewed my shopping strategy. “I’ll just dip my toe into the MegaSizeVille waters the first time out,” I thought, “walk a single lap around the store and pick up only a few necessities.” I searched in vain for a small hand-held basket, but settled upon a rolling cart so wide, deep and unwieldy I assumed it needed a truck driver’s CDL license for legal operation.

As I entered the MegaSizeVille warehouse, I felt like Gulliver in the Land of Brobdingnag: physically quite small and surrounded by immense but familiar things. (No need to be impressed at my literary acumen; I couldn’t recall that place name without Internet intervention. I decided to upgrade from my first thought: a character in the science fiction “Land of the Giants” television show from the late 1960s).

Perhaps it was the implied challenge of the voluminous rolling cart, or perhaps it was a subtle scent of newly-minted membership cards pumping through into the MegaSizeVille ventilation system, but my original intention to practice fiscal frugality quickly fell by the wayside during this maiden membership voyage. “I came, I saw, I grabbed it” was the Julius Caesar-esque chant which echoed in my head as items seemed to leap off the shelves and into my cart. My sparse list of necessities was supplemented time and time again as I hiked across the concrete expanse and surveyed my purchase options. 

Before I knew it, I was in possession of a four-pack of printer ink, twelve rolls of Christmas wrap, and a 24-container flat of yogurt in preparation for the ever-looming diet; a 48-piece oven-ready box of mini hors d’oeuvres took a swan dive into the cart in sympathy. A dozen softball-sized blueberry muffins balanced precariously atop a set of crimson bath towels and a space heater; the shrink-wrapped pyramid of tomato soup and triple-bagged box of MegaSizeVille brand breakfast cereal were nestled near the sugary pièce de résistance: an immense container of gourmet jelly beans, the ingesting of which my former editor swore was essential for good writing (Note to self: save receipt to submit as business expense).

Careful calculations showed each oversized item to be a bargain if amortized down to the unit or ounce, so I continued to thrust more items into the cart and weave through the aisles of the consumer warehouse.

After paying for my harvest and placing an order in the MegaSizeVille bakery for a sheet cake covered in roses, I drove home with my vehicle stuffed with purchases. Multiple trips downstairs with the cornucopia of items made my basement resemble a set from the cable show “Hoarders,” except I was not requesting an intervention. After all, you never know when you might need a 24-packet box of hot cocoa with marshmallows, a 12-pack of 60 watt light bulbs, or a grammar-school sized box of brown-sugar-flavored instant oatmeal.

Surveying the results of my shopping spree, I suddenly remembered the Gospel from St. Luke about the rich man tearing down his barns and erecting larger ones rather than share his bounty. “God said to him, ‘You fool, this night your life will be demanded of you; and the things you have prepared, to whom will they belong?’ Thus will it be for the one who stores up treasure for himself but is not rich in what matters to God.” [Luke 12:13-21]  Oops. My intentions to prepare my home for the fall had descended into a shameful display of gluttony.

I’m not too worried; I know God (most likely) will not send a celestial lightning bolt down to central Jersey because I joined a warehouse club, but I’ll take St. Luke’s warning to heart just the same. A number of these oversized purchases will make timely donations to my church’s Thanksgiving food drive, and I’ll try to show a little more restraint during my next visit to MegaSizeVille. In the meantime… do you know anyone who’d like to share a four-pound container of gourmet jelly beans?