Pile Your Rubbish Here

Pastor Bob & I had purchased the Cipro for his wife, who'd picked up a tummy bug during their visit. At the corner I jerked my thumb toward Deb’s work on the walls.

“Did you see the murals?”

Bob’s response was enthusiastic as we passed under the shade of the drive-thru at the liquor store to have a look.

A year earlier, he’d seen the work of Deb’s crew at the Galapagos Islands and had loved it. Amid evolutionary theory assumed as fact, murals stand as a testimonial to the Creator.

We stood and admired the work; it wasn’t long before Bob found his own story on the wall.

“This was me, right here.”

I knew his story even though I'd only met him an hour earlier.

The artist, Xavier, had captured it all in black and white: anguish, emptiness, desperation. Bob had known what life was like without God, whom he credits with non-churchy overtures toward a personal relationship. Like spoiling a drug deal at Bob’s lowest point, for example.

In the next panel, Jenny had artfully showed crowds playing with the wrong “toys.”

“Oh and look over there; people at the cross,” Bob gushed. He credits God with rescuing his marriage and bringing his family back.

We headed up the hill, Bob saw to his wife, and we drank a cup of coffee together.

“I better go,” I said.

“You need to? I could talk about Jesus all day.”

I really think he could have.

The next day I thought “oh, what a shame” when I saw garbage piled on the sidewalk in front of the murals. But the symbolism rushed in quickly:

Pile your rubbish here.

Right here.

At the foot of the cross.

Come as you are and pile your rubbish here.

As a chorus says,

Give them all, give them all, give them all to Jesus

Shattered dreams, wounded hearts, and broken toys.

Give them all, give them all, give them all to Jesus

And He will turn your sorrows into joy.

See (and buy!) more of Deb's work.