In the Dark of the Night

I awake too early this morning and squint at the fiery red numbers on the digital clock.  It’s 4:30, and I squirm with realization: we forgot to wheel our trash to the curb for early Monday morning pick-up. Reluctantly, I slither from between the warm blankets, slide my bare feet into boots, and don a winter coat without bothering to zip it. With crumpled, matted schizo-hair, I stealthily turn the doorknob leading outdoors so as not to wake my man. The door doesn’t make a sound.  Good job.

Outside, the dumpster’s lid refuses to open when I attempt to add a final contribution from the kitchen wastebasket - a smelly trash bag holding fetid odors reminiscent of sardines.  It is frozen shut, sealed with ice. My bare hands pound the stuck-shut lid like a drum face, and I shrink self-consciously from my own marauding clunks and bangs. Wham-wham-wham.  WHAM! There. The stubborn seal breaks and the cover succumbs.  Its hinge creaks too-too loudly and the dumpster yawns wide to receive the rank offering.

My boots crunch through dry snow.  The dumpster’s little black wheels roll along, rumbling low-pitched thunder noises as they advance across the yard.  Hopefully the husband and neighbors - and especially our near neighbor with the huge Burmese mountain dog - are sound asleep and not alarmed.  There’s a hint of adventure to all of this, exploring the normal boundaries in the grip of night, breaking the mold.  The fresh air fills my lungs and whole self: exhilarating.

However, I’m starkly alone out here with only my white breath and a week’s worth of trash for company.  Chillingly exposed, solitary, and strangely an alien in my own land. It’s a little bit creepy.  Suddenly a suspicious shadow (or perhaps an imagined one?) approaches from behind.  You know the feeling.  Something’s back there.  And it’s coming.  COMING.

The cuffs of my flannel pajama legs are hiked up almost to my knees as they were in bed, so my calves are bared to the cold.  I suddenly feel vulnerable and sorely misplaced.  I choke, unable to breathe, afraid to confess my fear even to myself.  I am able, however, to whisper a single name:

“Lord Jesus!”

His name is enough, and I recover my wits.  He loves me.  His love casts out fear.

I thoughtfully take my time scuffing down the snow-covered driveway and quietly reenter the house.  I kick off my boots, throw my coat over the back of the couch, and climb between the still-warm sheets.  Then I stare at the ceiling and think wow, I did a good thing by taking out the trash.  But even more, I did a victorious thing by conquering fear in the name of Jesus.