I was simply trying to take a trash bag out of the can. It needed to go to the dumpster. But it wouldn’t come out. There were some boxes in there holding it inside the can. I got frustrated. Really frustrated. Holding the bag that was holding the can, I kicked the trash can a couple of times denting in that plastic vice grip. After a tense fight with the inanimate object, I finally broke the death grip. I took the trash out. Upon returning to the building, I found that I had inadvertantly ripped a small hole. Through this hole, a brownish substance (I think it was coffee) left a really long trail from the kitchen all the way through to the front door. As I was mopping, I could feel the eyes of the Lord on me. I knew what He would say. He knew I knew what He would say. It was simply understood. And I understood that understanding for the ten minutes it took me to mop up the result of my fight with the trash can.
I shared this story with our church Sunday morning. I think I scared them. And I think all the other trash cans are scared of me.
I really don’t know why I kicked that trash can. I think it must have been an easy way to release some tension and frustration. Usually I just huff and puff a bit and then laugh. The funny part is that once I kicked the can twice, it dented in, increasing the grip of the can on the bag. I am such a dork.