trash day
Blooms litter the street, floating down from the pear and cherry trees like flat fairy carpets, like petals tossed to soften the footfall of a bride. I feel out of place here in my tennis shoes, but am I? I glance at the sky–cloudless, blue like the sapphire sea around God’s throne. Everywhere, the Holy mingles with the broken. My awe over this never gets old. How can I, plain-faced and sweaty in my old t-shirt, walk beneath the gaze of God? To borrow David’s verse, “What are mere mortals that you should think about them (Psalm 8:4 NLT)?” Birds sing joy, as loud and as bright as the colors of the day.
But from the valley, I hear the deep rumble of a truck cresting the hill, something massive enough to issue a weighty groan. Adjusting my sight lower, I notice the waste cans lining the streets, some so full of garbage that their lids won’t lay closed. I walk by one now and catch a whiff of rot. The odor mixes with the fragrance of resurrection blooms. It’s trash day, our weekly Atonement, when we put our garbage on display, rolling the truth of it right down to the street in plain sight. Everything here only shadows the truth. Confession precedes cleansing every time, and no matter how noble our typical pretense, one thing becomes clear: we all collect these piles of rubbish. Our living bears fruit and waste all at once, as the battle of the Spirit and the flesh continues. But as David wrote, “as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us (Psalm 103:12).” I smile now, making my way: sanitation and sanctification share more than just a number of letters.
I pilgrim on down the winding road, waiting for that steel hulk to catch up to me, looking back to watch workers scurry down the street like ants, checking the cans. They look to see what we have left that requires removal, throwing back the lids as though the smell hardly matters anymore. I feel like Martha, worrying over the reek of decay before the victory over it.
“Hello there! Have a beautiful day!” The voice sounds rich, the syllables rounded out with full joy, and I look up, only just realizing my focus has descended to my feet. The truck squeals beside me, slowing. The man who has greeted me hangs on the back, one hand looped around a handle, his feet balanced on a beat-up dirty fender. He looks happy. Happy, even though he has to go home at the end of the day and wash off the smell of trash. To the man’s right, I see heaps of our garbage overflowing the back of the truck, but he focuses on me and his smile is all teeth. How could that job bring him such joy? He makes me remember: But for the joy set before Him, Jesus endured the cross (Hebrews 12:2). This man teaches me, riding that truck with his shining eyes focused on the people he serves more than the trash he collects. Jesus possesses joy that overwhelms the Calvary road. Joy carried him there. And all the way to the cross, wasn’t He focused on the love of us even as he bore the ugliness of what we’ve done? This truth has shocked more than one wayward woman, and it never stops stunning me. My awe over it never gets old. I lift my hand, beam back that joy to the man whose warmth keeps the beautiful in the day, despite the bagged-up evidence of our mess.
