One Man’s Trash is Another Man’s Treasure?!?

by Beth Duewel

How does it happen? How does a family of five produce so much trash? It’s embarrassing. We might as well invite BFI to drop off a dumpster in the driveway. I mean, the neighbors don’t seem to have this problem, gloating with their measly two bags of trash a week. Last week I asked my husband to smuggle our six bags down to the end of the drive—in the black of night. He thought I was being silly.
 
Can you say recycle?
 
Surely, recycling was the answer to all of our gluttonous problems. Magazines in this bag—glass in that, until we had loads of recyclables piled in the garage. The result you ask—six bags of trash to take to the curb. Sigh.
 
Next we tried burning (don’t worry only paper products…outside of the city limits). It did make a dent, but not enough to demonstrate a true trash diet.
 
The problem I surmised—all the extra items that don’t fall under recycle worthy, or burn worthy status. For instance, the slipper that has no match. What do we do with that? Did I mention it has a hole in the toe? The broken McDonalds toy, (that I attempted to fix, although not too hard), but then discarded when my youngest went to school. McDonalds always seems to have plenty to spare. Then we have the headless Barbie, the straw thing-a-ma-dad that used to loop and swirl. That was before it melted into a swirly thing-a-ma-bob in the dish washer. All these things add up to one giant HEFTY.
 
To ease my conscience, I knew I could find solace in spring. You see, our town takes part in a trash cleanup day. Yes, the sidewalks can literally be littered with old laundry baskets, broken shutters, and unsalvageable appliances. Sometimes a heap of trash can stack eight…no… ten feet high. Quite enough to make me feel a bit puffy about my measly six bags.
House after house I had justifiable thoughts: “I would never have that much trash. Look at the size of that pile!” Feeling rather supreme about myself I would skedaddle past the messes until I reached my minute pile and breathe a sigh of relief.  Ahhh.
 
Then one day while driving by the biggest heap of all, I spotted it. A white- washed bookshelf just peeking at me from beneath a mattress. But no, I had to resist. Me? The judger of trash could never take part in such practices. Hmmm, something to hold the many books that my daughter and I read, I thought as I drove by.
 
 
 I tried to sleep on it, but my mind kept returning to the possibilities. White paint, a block of wood …
 
So, in the broad of day I pulled up in my camouflaged minivan and hoisted someone else’s garbage into the back of my vehicle. My mind buzzing with the potential of it all.
 
Coming to this “my trash vs. their trash” conclusion, I realized how easy it was to point an accusing, judgmental finger towards others. It can start with a seemingly harmless comparison. I’ve had plenty of those like… “I will never have a son that shoots birds, or does drugs, or gets into trouble with the law. And would you just look at that, my teenage daughter will never wear her skirt that short, or use profanity, or ask for a tattoo for Christmas.” And no, Brittany didn’t ask for a tattoo for Christmas.
 
But what if she did? Does that mean I didn’t do my job as a parent OR that God didn’t do his job as the creator of the universe??? Or mean I find her less valuable or love her less?
 
Isn’t it amazing that the one that was without flaw or blemish came to those of us who have enough junk in our hearts to fill a dump? Jesus never judged—but loved and found us of great worth. A literal tower of treasure.
 
And speaking of treasure, its spring again and yesterday I saw a posting in the paper that someone mistakenly grabbed Mr. Anderson’s lawnmower (thinking it to be trash) that was sitting at the edge of the road. The poor fellow was just making a quick trip to the store. I mean, who would do such a thing??? I’m just hoping Mrs. Anderson hadn’t been watching her honey mow and sitting in that white wicker chair, beside the red lawn mower, before they left. Smile.

Copyright © 2008 - Elizabeth Duewel. All rights reserved.