Trash as Treasure
So I admit, when I woke up at 6:30 this morning, I was less than enthused by the prospect of picking up trash on a Saturday morning. Brad, the boys and I had signed up to collect litter with a group of volunteers through the first annual Southwood Serves project (this was just one of literally dozens of service initiatives – from cleaning the yards of elderly residents to singing at nursing homes to sorting donated clothing at the City Mission).
It had seemed like a great idea at the time, but now I was having second thoughts. My bed felt exceptionally cozy. I had made it up the night before with the one set of high-thread-counts sheets we have, and this morning they felt especially snuggly. Plus it was freezing outside (well, not exactly freezing, but like 47 degrees, which is freezing enough for me). And it was cloudy. And it looked like it might rain. As I lay in bed I wondered if I’d still have to serve in the rain. "Oh please cancel if it rains, please cancel if it rains," I pleaded to Whoever Is In Charge of This Project.
I dragged myself out of bed, grumped around the kitchen and felt only marginally better after my first cup of coffee. And then Noah and I bundled up (Rowan and Brad were skipping the brief worship service and meeting us later at the volunteer site), and we drove to Southwood for the 8:30 service.
My mood began to turn along the way. At a stop light, I glanced at the pickup next to me and noticed the driver was wearing the same Southwood Serves tee-shirt that I was. He looked over at me; we smiled and waved.
My desposition steadily improved as I witnessed the stream of cars, bumper to bumper, pulling into Southwood’s parking lot.
And then the people. The sanctuary was packed to capacity – it looked like the 9:45 service on Sunday…except this was Saturday. More than 500 people had turned out to serve their community on a chilly, Saturday morning. More than 500 people had put the needs of others before their own typical Saturday plans. As Pastor Greg gave a rousing rally cry before dismissing us, we all chanted, “Jesus! Jesus!” and twirled our washcloths above our heads (the washcloths a symbol of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet at the last supper). It was so inspiring, so exciting, so energizing, I thought to myself, “This must be how the Baptists feel every Sunday!!”
Noah was fired up by the service. On the way to our clean-up site he requested a CD with a faster tempo, because, as he put it, “I’m so pumped up!” And frankly, I’ve never seen two kids so eager to pick up trash. If only they approached cleaning their rooms like they tackled that path, I would be a saner woman indeed. All the way down Sheridan Boulevard, from 33rd Street to South, they hunted for trash, scouring the grass, foraging under pine trees and bushes, gleeful over cigarette butts, Big Gulp cups and Bud Light bottles.
When we reached the far end, we turned around to begin the trek back…and that’s when things began to fall apart.
“My legs hurt…I’m tired…I don’t want to pick up trash anymore,” whined Noah. “Where’s the car, why’d you park the car so far away, when are we going to be there?” complained Rowan. About a quarter of the way back Brad and I resorted to carrying a kid each, piggy-back style, while hauling our trash bag and bucket. We must have looked like quite the ragtag bunch.
Finally Brad left the kids and me sitting slumped together on the divider while he ran back to get the car to retrieve us. The kids complained relentlessly while he was gone – “The trash stinks…why do we have to sit next to the stinky trash…my legs still hurt…what’s taking Dad so long?” My good mood evaporated. “Buck up, people, will you? Jeez, what happened to saving the Earth? What happened to pumped up? It’s only been two hours! Give me a break!"
Back at Southwood, though, I read some of the serving testimonials the volunteers had clipped to the story board – tales of cleaning gutters and raking; of sorting clothes and scrubbing tables; of craft projects with little sisters and brothers; of shelves stocked and lawns mowed; of cat cages cleaned and windows washed.
It had seemed like a great idea at the time, but now I was having second thoughts. My bed felt exceptionally cozy. I had made it up the night before with the one set of high-thread-counts sheets we have, and this morning they felt especially snuggly. Plus it was freezing outside (well, not exactly freezing, but like 47 degrees, which is freezing enough for me). And it was cloudy. And it looked like it might rain. As I lay in bed I wondered if I’d still have to serve in the rain. "Oh please cancel if it rains, please cancel if it rains," I pleaded to Whoever Is In Charge of This Project.
I dragged myself out of bed, grumped around the kitchen and felt only marginally better after my first cup of coffee. And then Noah and I bundled up (Rowan and Brad were skipping the brief worship service and meeting us later at the volunteer site), and we drove to Southwood for the 8:30 service.
My mood began to turn along the way. At a stop light, I glanced at the pickup next to me and noticed the driver was wearing the same Southwood Serves tee-shirt that I was. He looked over at me; we smiled and waved.
My desposition steadily improved as I witnessed the stream of cars, bumper to bumper, pulling into Southwood’s parking lot.
And then the people. The sanctuary was packed to capacity – it looked like the 9:45 service on Sunday…except this was Saturday. More than 500 people had turned out to serve their community on a chilly, Saturday morning. More than 500 people had put the needs of others before their own typical Saturday plans. As Pastor Greg gave a rousing rally cry before dismissing us, we all chanted, “Jesus! Jesus!” and twirled our washcloths above our heads (the washcloths a symbol of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet at the last supper). It was so inspiring, so exciting, so energizing, I thought to myself, “This must be how the Baptists feel every Sunday!!”
Noah was fired up by the service. On the way to our clean-up site he requested a CD with a faster tempo, because, as he put it, “I’m so pumped up!” And frankly, I’ve never seen two kids so eager to pick up trash. If only they approached cleaning their rooms like they tackled that path, I would be a saner woman indeed. All the way down Sheridan Boulevard, from 33rd Street to South, they hunted for trash, scouring the grass, foraging under pine trees and bushes, gleeful over cigarette butts, Big Gulp cups and Bud Light bottles.
When we reached the far end, we turned around to begin the trek back…and that’s when things began to fall apart.
“My legs hurt…I’m tired…I don’t want to pick up trash anymore,” whined Noah. “Where’s the car, why’d you park the car so far away, when are we going to be there?” complained Rowan. About a quarter of the way back Brad and I resorted to carrying a kid each, piggy-back style, while hauling our trash bag and bucket. We must have looked like quite the ragtag bunch.
Finally Brad left the kids and me sitting slumped together on the divider while he ran back to get the car to retrieve us. The kids complained relentlessly while he was gone – “The trash stinks…why do we have to sit next to the stinky trash…my legs still hurt…what’s taking Dad so long?” My good mood evaporated. “Buck up, people, will you? Jeez, what happened to saving the Earth? What happened to pumped up? It’s only been two hours! Give me a break!"
Back at Southwood, though, I read some of the serving testimonials the volunteers had clipped to the story board – tales of cleaning gutters and raking; of sorting clothes and scrubbing tables; of craft projects with little sisters and brothers; of shelves stocked and lawns mowed; of cat cages cleaned and windows washed.
Tales of generosity and sacrifice; gratitude and joy; smiles and songs. Connections forged. Goodwill exchanged. Simple serving that had made a big impact on hundreds, if not thousands of Lincoln residents in just three short hours. Those little notes pinned to that board restored my good mood in an instant. Well, that and the two helpings of homemade ice cream I scarfed down on the church lawn. 
Posts
