Waste

God doesn't waste things.


I feel like I may need to repeat that for you.  Just in case the world has convinced you that time's been wasted.  Or that opportunities have been wasted; that talent, effort, or energy may have been wasted.  That you have hurt in vain.  


Please, don't believe it.  Don't believe them.


We follow and serve and resemble a Creator who redeems.  The Lord of redemption and restoration.  The one true God of salvation and of creativity.  


I don't know what season you're in right now.  Perhaps it is a slow, cultivating one (welcome to the club).  Perhaps it is a season of preparation, which (lucky you) probably equates to brokenness.  Maybe you're in a season of favor, of invitation, of harvest.  Rejoice in that.  It could be, that you're in a season of planting.  


I also don't know about your past.  The past few years, months, days, hours of your life.  The choices you've made, the paths you've chosen, the mistakes you've made.  I don't know about the scars.  I know they're there, because I have them too.  But God only knows how deep they go.  


Every time I've found myself in a quiet moment the past few days, I've heard Him say: Anna, I don't waste things.


This makes me smile.  My life is testimony to this promise.   


But I am surrounded by people who are anchored down by their regrets.  Who are burdened with their sin.  Who wake up each morning to the alarming beep of the enemy telling them they are broken, unusable, and damaged.


I keep company with a lot of Christ-followers, who still believe every moment before they met Christ is unimportant.  Insignificant.  A cause for shame and nothing more.


Tuesday night He whispered in my ear about this.  


-


The dump was growing larger as I drew closer.  I could smell it long before I saw it.  I had stuffed everything into a large, black garbage bag.  Appropriate since all this was, was trash.  And so much of it, too.  A whole lifetime, wasted.


Sweat beaded on my brow and the muscles in my arms and shoulders were growing tired.  I had come a long way.  In every sense.


Not long ago, I met Him.  The one they called Savior.  The one they called Christ.  He had met me where I was, in the middle of my mess.  He had promised rest and peace and hope.  I had accepted His offer.  And until now, I had never looked back.


But I met a few, who also claimed to follow Him -- Christ.  "Where did you come from?" They would ask me about the days before Him.  About the place I'd dwelled before now.


Suddenly, in my eyes everything became filthy.  Garbage.  I had to get it out.


I paused at the edge of the dump to take a breath before hauling my bags into its depths.


What are you doing?


I looked around.  The familiar voice seemed to come from nowhere at first.  


Beloved, where are you going with that?


I saw Him then.  Standing not far away, as if He'd been waiting for me.  I wiped the sweat off my face with the back of my hand, took another deep breath, and tried to explain.


"I can't keep it," was all I could muster.  "All of it has to go.  It is dirty."


He took a few steps closer to me, with hands outstretched.


You're throwing it all away?


I nodded and I saw something flicker across His face.  Something the world might call compassion.  Something I unexpectedly recognized as grace.


"Isn't that what you want me to do?" I bent over and grabbed the knotted end of the garbage bag and tried to lift it up again.  Not much further.  I was almost there.


No, no, no.  With a single stride He was by my side, one hand on the garbage bag, the other on my shoulder.  I wanted you to give it to Me.  


"What?" I shrugged away from His touch and shook my head.  "You want this?  Do you even know what is in this bag?"  I took a step backward.  "I really would rather you not even look at it.  Just let me throw it away.  It's all just trash."


Can we look at it together before you throw it away, please?  He reached to untie the bag.  I dropped it and turned away.  I felt shame spread over my face and cringed as I heard Him rummaging through the contents of the bag.


Look at this, beloved.  I refused to turn toward Him.  I did not want to see all my garbage strewn out before Him.  I wanted to be pure and blameless in His sight.  I wanted to be new.  What I was before, my life before Him, was useless.  A waste.


Beloved.  Look at Me.


Reluctantly I looked up and met His eyes.


I was going to use this.  He pulled something out of my garbage bag and put it into His own, which hung from His shoulder.  And actually, I had a lot of plans for this too.  


I stared in disbelief.  He was taking all my trash, all my garbage -- the mistakes I'd made, the poorest of my decisions, the dirtiest parts of my history -- for Himself.  "Why in the world would you want that?"


Because.  He looked up from my bag and smiled.  I'm in the business of making all things new.


"You made me new," I protested.  "None of that is even usable.  It's all part of who I was before I met you.  I don't have room for it anymore -- remember?  This is what You saved me from!"


He stood up straight.  His tall frame cast a shadow over me and I felt the innermost parts of me breaking under all the embarrassment.  I was tired.  And I didn't want Him to see.


Deliberately He put the last of my so-called trash into His own bag and then held out His hands.


Empty your pockets.


He motioned with His fingers, just in case I didn't understand His words.  Come on.  I'll show you what we need to throw away.  


"I got rid of all of it, already.  What are you talking about?"


Empty your pockets.  I'll show you.


I turned my pockets inside out.  Shame and regret rolled onto the ground like spilled marbles, rolling around at our feet, gleaming in the sunlight.  He bent low and scooped them up in His palms.


Hold your bag open.  


He dumped the marbles into the massive, black bag.  I stared, dumbfounded, with out-turned pockets.  


Let Me see your wrists.  He reached forward and took my hand in His.  The scars on His wrists were jagged and raised, but His fingers moved nimbly to remove the bracelets on my wrists.  The woven braids of guilt and anxiety fell loose into His palms.  He turned and re-opened the trash bag.  In fell the bracelets, landing quietly on top of the marbles, resting deep down in the bottom.


Beloved, there is nothing I cannot use.  You are not meant to carry it.  And it is not yours to restore.  You were meant to give it all to me.  Every piece, every broken thing.  Anything dirty, anything worthless.  I want it all.  Let Me use it, as only I know how.  I do not waste things.


I rubbed my naked wrists.  Watching, silently, as He shouldered the black bag and took a few steps towards the dump.  Easily, He threw it towards piles of garbage and dirt.  


But He threw it so far, I never even saw where it landed.


He put His arm around my shoulder then and turned me around.  And together we walked away.