I started backing down the driveway. It was early. It was dark. I was trying to avoid the trash can that was at the edge of the street. I looked in my review mirror, in my mid mirror, and in the backup camera and could not find it. I swiveled my head peering into the dark, but no trash can. I made it to the street shifted into drive and headed to my meeting.
The neighbor's trash can was dutifully standing at attention at their house. All along the street, the silent sentinels awaited their turn to fly into the air and drop their trash into the truck patrolling our neighborhood. My first thought was that we had forgotten to put the trash can at the curb. The more I rehearsed the previous evening the more I rejected that thought. We had put the trash can into its on-deck circle. Where was my trash?
One of the last things I remember before falling asleep was the bedroom being illuminated by the flash of lightning. The rain had followed. As I drove down the street the evidence of fallen limbs, heaps of leaves in the gutters, and wet pavement told me we had gotten more than just a rain shower.
My meeting ended and I went back home on a quest to find my trash can. I started to walk the way the water flows in the street during a rain storm. One blue box was still at attention about 150 feet away. It was not mine. At that spot, the water turns and flows down a short side street. Five cans lined the road. I felt awkward. One of these belonged at my house. I started at a house that had two cans. Since each home was issued one can, I initially assumed that mine must have cozied up next to a friend and was waiting there for retrieval. I looked in the cans. They were not mine. I don’t like looking into other people’s trash. It feels like an invasion. It did not make it easier that they were empty. It meant that I had to scrutinize the insides.
Three cans remained on the south side of the street. I studied the situation. There were only two houses. All of the cans were some distance from the curb and had been pushed by the water down the street. One of these cans was an interloper. It had to be mine. I reasoned that the water had pushed them all at a similar rate. The first one had to be mine. I looked both ways as I lifted the lid. The trash bags were gone, but the remnants of our garbage were still detectable. It was our can. I measured it. It was 324’ from where it started. I pushed it home. I was thinking about the rot inside of me, the sin, the selfishness, the rebellion. I’m like everyone, I hope no one notices, but the exercise of putting the trash can at the curb for everyone to see is a reminder, that “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Rom 3:23).
You can’t hide from your sin, you can’t shift the blame. It is yours. It has to be found and owned. I placed the tall blue reminder at the back of my house. I thought of it the rest of the day. It made me thankful that God is willing to collect my trash at any moment. And unlike my trash bin, he leaves no residue. As David prays, Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow (Ps 51:7).