When I was a boy in Cleveland, Ohio, I would leap out of bed just before sunrise on trash day, tie an industrial-size garbage bag around my handlebars, and cruise down the red-brick streets to rummage through boxes for curbside valuables that my Dad would sell every weekend at the local drive-in.
Even as a kid, I understood that my Dad’s loading, unloading, setting up and selling at the flea market was a means of going out for family dinner or enjoying the annual summer trip to the big amusement park. For myself, I was never forced to go garbage picking. I wasn’t abused. I wanted to help and, for me, there was never a stigma attached to these childhood treasure hunts. We were simply recycling someone else’s discarded possessions into supplemental family income.
Things were different in the late 1960’s and early 70’s, but fifty years later much remains the same.
I hadn’t given much thought to my childhood expeditions until an unexpected encounter at a local gas station. I saw him coast onto the station lot through the corner of my eye. I was filling up my tank on the way to work. My first thought was horribly judgmental and uncharitable.
“You can’t pump gas into a bicycle. I hope he doesn’t ask me for money.”
I intentionally avoided direct eye contact at all costs. The gentleman on the bike had no interest in speaking to me or any one else at the pumps. He went about quietly transferring the recyclable plastic bottles and aluminum cans from the large receptacles to his own industrial size garbage bag.
So correct me, LORD, but please be gentle. Do not correct me in anger, for I would die. (Jeremiah 10:24)
I was compelled to look up to see a cleanly dressed man in his early forties digging through the trash with all the dignity, humility and self respect that I robbed from him in my silent, cynical judgment.
Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me. (Matthew 25:40)
I recalled the memory of a young boy pedaling down the red-brick streets of Cleveland. At that moment, the scales fell from my eyes and my heart was softened.
I walked over to meet him where he was.
I had some empty plastic bottles on the floor in the back of my car as well as an extra large full bottle of water. I walked over to meet him where he was.
I handed the bottles to him and looked at his face. He was well groomed and clean-shaven. His eyes were warm and tired with a genuine glimmer of joy and hope that can only be predicated on the Spirit of God dwelling within a soul. He smiled and gratefully accepted the empty bottles and he put them in his bag.
He held the large bottle of water and said “Thanks. I’ll save this one to drink later. Every ounce counts.”
“Every ounce counts.”
To this day, I am eternally grateful for the liberating encounter on my way to work that afternoon. I’ve pondered the profound meaning of those three words in my heart for more than a decade. I pray to continue to live them in charity for the rest of my days.
Whether we’re growing in the sanctuary of our mother’s womb, wailing in infancy, in our prime or golden years, active or infirm, burned out, rusted away, or exhausted and spent in our final moments on earth; every second, every breath, and every heartbeat is worth infinitely more to God than we can ever comprehend.
Our heart would not beat and our lungs would not draw air without the grace of God who alone is the Author of our life and death.
A thirst can be quenched with one bottle of water. A family income can be supplemented with the recycled value of many empty bottles. We should ask our Guardian Angel to help us to hear God’s still, small voice with docility to the Holy Spirit who leads us to be the answer to the silent prayer of a brother or sister in need. This is God’s gift to us.
“Do small things with great love.” – Saint Mother Teresa of Calcutta
© 2026 Brian Kravec
First published April 8, 2015
2 Responses
Dear Brian – “Every Ounce Counts” – those three little words spoken to you at a gas pump – I could only think the Divine Physician was speaking those words to your heart that day – you got it – and you passed it on to all who will read this blog. I kind of think it as a “hot potato” – the game we played as kids….we need to pass it on….Thank you for you a lesson in humility and love.
Blessings – Anita
Yes, dear sister, praise the Lord for His gentle correction and healing – a most constant and necessary grace!