Bin There, Done That

To give you an idea of how long my driveway is, imagine unfolding the paper receipt you got at the pharmacy for purchasing a pack of gum. That’s right. My driveway is the exact same length: 270 feet, or almost 1/20th of a mile.

You’d think that living in the northeastern U.S. with a driveway able to land an airplane, come winter I’d either use a snowblower or hire a plow service. But no. I’m mentally unhinged enough to actually enjoy shoveling all that snow.

“You’re not getting younger,” says my wife, “One of these days you’re going to clutch your heart and fall over dead in the snowbank from shoveling.”

“It’s such a turn-on when you share your fantasies,” I reply.

“I’m serious. Use a snowblower.”

“But shoveling keeps me fit!” I say. “As part of a regular exercise routine, it makes me less likely to have a heart attack than if I slowly shuffle along behind a machine that does all the work. Don’t you want a man who’s muscular and lean?”

“Corey from college? I haven’t thought of him in years.”

“Wait. Who?”

And so it goes. This winter it’s been heavy snowfall after heavy snowfall. I’ve shoveled more big dumps than a stable boy at Jurassic World.

We’ve got quite a collection of winter gear. A huge assortment of gloves, mittens, scarves, and wool hats. A few years ago I got rid of them all by accident. And no one— not a single person— knows what I went through to get them back. Until now, dear reader. This is a true story.

During the process of moving to another house across town, we were sorting through clothes and putting piles of them in garbage bags to donate. One day that May, I drove to a big metal donation bin in a mall parking lot and stuffed half a dozen bags down the chute. The next day, I couldn’t find the bag containing all those gloves, mittens, scarves, and hats, that was supposed to get dropped off at the new house. I realized I had put it in the bin by mistake. My heart froze (it probably wished it had a scarf, but join the club, pal).

This would not go over well with my wife. She is a woman of precision and of attention to detail. She thinks I’m quite scatter-brained by comparison, and, on top of that, she thinks I’m quite scatter-brained by comparison.

I told her nothing. That night, a Saturday, I set my alarm as usual for 4am Sunday. I always got up that early to help set up the portable church campus at which I was the pastor. This time, however, I began with a covert detour to the bin. On the drive there, I prayed that the donations pick-up hadn’t been the day before. The pre-dawn sky was still dark. No one was around. I pulled down the metal door of the chute and peered in with my flashlight. I could see the tops of some bags but that was all.

There are moments in life when you say to yourself, “I can’t believe I’m going to do this.” Like right before you order from Taco Bell. This was one of those moments. Crazy. Indefensible. But I was going to do it.

With less struggle than I expected, I was able to hoist myself up and into the bin’s opening. Like a frog halfway down a fish’s gullet, my legs flailed in the night air as I wriggled and squirmed in the chute. But I didn’t get stuck for long. I was slim enough to pass through— mainly because I don’t use a snowblower, I’ll bet.

Head first, I dropped into a soft pile of plastic bags full of used clothes and shoes. Above me, the chute door slammed shut. It was pitch black. I turned on my flashlight again and saw a loose pair of nice-looking wingtips my size. I shook off the temptation to take them. “You’re a pastor. You don’t do shady things,” I proudly reminded myself as I crawled around inside the donation bin.

Lifting and shoving bags aside, I looked for the clear plastic one through which I’d be able to see my stuff. It had to be here. It had to be. And then there it was. Like the Gospel story of the shepherd finding the lost sheep, I had found my own woolly fugitives. Reunited and it feels so … claustrophobic! I needed to get out.

A salmon-pink dawn rose in the east as I cruised down the highway to church. I smiled as I spoke to God. “Lord, you must have quite a record of all the stupid things I’ve done in my life. I’m trying to picture that list.”

Clear as the morning light, I heard Him reply: “Imagine unfolding a paper receipt from a pharmacy …”