It was one of those days when everything seemed to be difficult, including something as simple as vacuuming my floor. With vacuum handle in hand, I maneuvered around furniture, quickly finding myself getting wrapped up in my sweeper’s electrical cord, and muttering in frustration that I wouldn’t have been able to do that again had I tried.
It was certainly a case of Murphy’s Law at play. I eventually got the cord untangled from my leg and foot (not without tripping a few times) and then proceeded with my daily chores. One of which was emptying the overflowing trash can.
I soon found myself flushed with a hint of annoyance, as I inwardly screamed at my husband for his inability to empty the trash more often. Quite irritably, I pulled the bag from the can, upsetting it in the process, as contents fell onto the floor. I muttered under my breath as I picked up egg shells and fallen coffee grounds on my once clean floor. I didn’t even drink coffee and yet there I was cleaning up coffee grounds. Ugh!
With my frustration building, I reached for my box of garbage bags, pulling out the whole roll, trying desperately to separate one single bag from the collective roll. Thoughts of punching my husband in the stomach faintly crossed my mind, as I managed to finally tear off one single trash bag. However, just when I thought I was home free with the chore of trash removal, I couldn’t open the bag. More decidedly, I couldn’t even tell which end was up.
Wanting to crumble into a crying puddle on my kitchen floor, I ran my finger under some water, and again attempted opening the bag. Just when I was certain the bag was flawed, certain that it had no opening, as thoughts of punching my husband turned a wee bit more sinister, I noticed black writing stamped on the side of the small white trash bag. A bag that had quickly become my nemesis.
The words, “open here,” with a visible arrow instructing me where here actually was, seemed to mock my failure of doing something as simple as opening a trash bag.
In all the years I’d used garbage bags, and for all those times I’d struggled to tell up from down, it was the first time I noticed instructions. Why hadn’t I noticed them before? I had allowed satan (I know it’s supposed to be capitalized, but I can’t bring myself to capitalize his name) to use a tiny white plastic bag to turn my day into a complete ruin. Misguiding my anger at my poor husband, who wasn’t even there.
It was a real eye opener, because in reality, I had often failed to follow the instructions given to me by God. Instructions laid out in a very obtainable compilation of pages we all know as the Bible. Had I followed such instructions, I would have been fully aware that no one can steal my joy because of a simple trash bag.
“And do not be grieved, for the joy of the lord is your strength.” Therefore, my brothers and sisters in Christ, do not allow satan to steal your joy, because he doesn’t deserve it. Let your joy be in the lord as you will receive strength to face and overcome all trials and obstacles. Nehemiah 8:10
Even if those obstacles are something as trivial as egg shells and coffee grounds, satan will make mountains out of molehills, but only if we let him.