Throughout all time, God, most likely disguised as a bum, searches through alleys and ghettos and picks through the trash and rubble for a treasure worth millions. He sticks His hands into piles of reeking refuse and selects from the garbage a discarded piece.
He’s addicted to the search, just as humans are addicted to finding a prize at flea markets or yard sales. He constantly searches, looking for the vilest piece of rubbish He can find to take home and restore. He sees splendor where others see sewage.
What kind of rubbish does God look for? The stench-ridden, dirtiest, foulest pieces of junk He can find. Why? He knows that underneath the grime, the smell, the absolute awfulness of a carefully selected cast-off is a gleaming treasure more precious than gold.
God sifts through the yard sales, flea markets and trash heaps of filthy lives, and He chooses with great glee a masterpiece, covered in grunge, cracks and bruises.
The Great Garbage Picker sees a possible jewel in a junk pile. He pulls from the rubbish heap a soul He wants to polish until it gleams with aged perfection.
He sees precious spirits contained in sullied shells thrown away—the battered bargains perfect for becoming a stunning success.
I see Him laugh as He nudges the Heavenly Host and proudly shows off the deal of the day.
“Look what I found,” He says. “Do you have any idea how much this is worth?”
He hurries to His workshop and begins the tedious process of restoration.
The eyes of Heaven watch Him, fearful to see what new formation could possibly arise from the tarnished, damaged piece of goods nobody wanted. Eyes, under raised eyebrows, roll.
He sings as He works. Patches a hole here, and forms a new piece there. Some scratches and scars He leaves. They add character, He says.
He takes His time and leaves no crevice unclean, blowing away hidden remnants of dust before the hardest part begins.
With the skill of a Master, He chips away clumps of bitter brick and hardened hatred and reveals the damaged heart of His find. He exhales another soft breath, watches the last dirty remnants of a prison fall away and uncovers the inner beauty it held captive.
Anxious angels hover outside His workshop door. Electric excitement sparks the air. Expectation fills the eager crowd. Who will see the new creation first?
But wait, something is wrong.
The Treasure Hunter frowns.
The multitude outside His door holds their collective breath.
“A piece is missing!” He cries.
He moves about the workroom, deep in thought. He mumbles under His breath.
The crowd strains to hear. They whisper among themselves. “What? What’s missing?”
Concern colors the moment and restlessness fills the Kingdom.
He paces back and forth as He awaits a solution. The treasure is not a treasure without the missing part.
The form on the table—did it just move?
The Carpenter stands still, and holds His breath.
Silence settles outside the door as no one fidgets or speaks. Statues they might be.
Then, out of the rubble, a hand emerges. It trembles.
God stands rigid, and the ache in His heart causes tears fall and stain the fabric of His workman’s clothes.
Thunder rumbles in the background and silent tears fall from every being in Heaven. Muscles tense and jaws clench.
Everyone wills the missing piece to appear. A concert of heaven’s hearts prays silently, fearful of interrupting a miracle in progress.
Will it come? God’s Kingdom sorrows in stillness, reluctant to break the expectant moment.
His followers cannot bear to see their King’s agony. They watch Him wait.
There—on the worktable!
A finger moved.
“Help me, Jesus,” seeps from the trash on the table. And a hand reaches for its Maker.
The Lord seats Himself on His workman’s stool. He gathers the bits and pieces of His masterpiece into His arms and rocks to soothe His child.
“Yes, the missing piece is here, after all,” the Father says.
He turns to the impatient crowd and holds up His newest born for all to see. His face glows with triumph, and He laughs with delight.
“I told you so,” He says. “Man’s garbage is My treasure.”
The Angels nod and join their laughter with His. Relief runs through the crowd.
“But I’ve got more work to do,” He says and turns back to the worktable.
Each adjustment and repair, a polish here and stitches there, turns a castoff into light on earth.
Yes, God is a garbage picker.
He takes what no one else one wants and transforms it into a precious jewel. . .
Dian, I do not have private messenger, so I'll have to say thank you, here, for all the world to see! You gave me such words of encouragement back in '04 when you commented on my "A Woman Called Dooley" article. Those words have helped to encourage me forward, pushing through every obstacle, in order to write what I hear. God bless!