One Man's Trash

Running late for small group, I pulled the headphones from my ears as I hastily slid back my chair and stood. I grabbed my backpack and shoved my laptop and journal inside. Already five minutes late because I chose finishing a T.V. show over timeliness to a group that provides me so much life. I slid into my winter vest as I rushed down the stairs and out the door, but not before changing my picture from “in” to “out” indicating that I was away from the house. At least I was faithful to something.

I hadn’t gotten too far before I saw him standing there - there being a highly inconvenient place for standing; the middle of the street. I glanced at him and then glanced away - maybe partially because I have grown up with the social construct that staring is awkward and impolite, but probably more so because looking eventually ends up demanding action. I continued to not look as I was crossing the street where he was standing. Rather, I glanced to the other corner where I saw a group of boys staring right at the man - at the man and his grocery cart full of baggage. But “full” isn’t quite the right word... Packed - overflowing is more accurate. His cart was so filled that a whole bag was lying in the street.

It wasn’t an active choice - going over to Him that is. It was more just a movement from within. In some ways I think my brain continued onward, but my body went towards Him. It felt like I was floating in a way - a surreal moment only recognized by my brain once my body caught back up to it.

What was causing him to be standing in the middle of the road was what others set out on the street as trash; a garbage bag full of cans. Even my mouth knew what to do as I walked over to him.

“Hi, what’s going on?”

“I can’t pick it up. I’m too weak.”

I lifted up the “heavy” bag which felt as though it was filled with feathers or less, and I placed it on his cart as he was already trying to continue on his way.

“Thank you,” he said as he continued on hunched over with his black knit hat and thick worn coat.

I left him with a simple “you’re welcome” and a brief smile, but I don’t think he saw.

I continued on, waved to a friend and soon made it to the other side of the street. An officer thanked me as she held the look of frustration on her face. Her face portrayed the message of feeling bad that I had to do some sort of “dirty work” that I didn’t deserve.

“Of course,” I responded as if the whole time I knew that I was going to assist the man in his journey, but it wasn’t an “of course” moment at all. I was, however, able to walk away glad that the prompting was there - His movement within me.

And in the end I was blessed by that movement - that man. I felt sorry for the onlookers who didn’t engage - who remained stationary with feet like heavy stones - no… feet like roots of an age-old tree fixed deeply in the ground - rooted in old and unchanging dirt. I feel sorry that they didn’t have the same experience, the same engagement that I did with the Lord through the act of picking up one man's trash yet another man’s prized possessions. With feet planted like trees, mouths sealed shut like vacant apartments, and hands bound so tightly clutching our own baggage, we will never be able step into, speak into, or even attempt to touch the life of another.

I made it to small group and I felt blessed and honored by the work that my hand were able and equipped to do.

Then my brain decided to slow back down and enter back in as I pondered the man’s words “I’m too weak.” Too weak to lift a bag that felt seemingly empty.

Oh how much more work there is yet to be done. Lord, may my feet, hands, and mouth never rest until your Kingdom come.