I’ve always been a television crime-show fanatic; my viewing tastes run more towards the “Homicide: Life on the Street” and “Forensic Files” genre rather than wholesome nature shows or heart-warming romantic comedies. The evidence is clear to anyone who knows me: I have a “Law and Order” theme ringtone on my cell phone, own the DVD boxed set of “NYPD Blue” and fully expect to embarrass my companions when I finally deplane in Hawaii and declare, “Book ‘em, Danno.”

During the proclamation of the Gospel on Divine Mercy Sunday (John 20:19-31), I empathized with Thomas’ skepticism. The topic of conversation was the Resurrection of the Lord, and this doubting apostle did a credible, centuries-early imitation of Dragnet’s Sgt. Joe Friday, wanting “just the facts” from his fellow disciples of Jesus. Belief in a person’s value without tangible evidence can be difficult, but an incident from my former career reinforces a message more reminiscent of this holy Gospel than of any of my secular crime shows.

Years ago I worked as an administrative assistant in a satellite communications company. Our Eastern Division excelled in the field and won many accolades; the Vice President of Sales, my boss Peter, had been in the business for decades, and his office bore the tangible evidence of his business acumen and leadership. When visitors remarked at the number of crystal, wooden and bronze awards and their significance, Peter never bragged, but generously credited the entire sales team for their role in the victories.

One spring, this skilled negotiator had convinced the office building’s management to paint our suite free of charge at lease renewal. Peter and my coworkers moved their furniture to the center of the rooms, and I was tasked with removing all wall hangings and wrapping all desktop items. “Don’t worry,” I reassured my superior. “I’ll make sure the workmen don’t drip paint onto any of these.”

While the rest of the sales team was travelling on business that Friday, I stepped into Peter’s office, walking slowly to scan a career’s worth of accolades and accomplishments. I carefully swaddled each award in protective bubble wrap, placing it gingerly into the cardboard boxes stacked on his tarp-covered desk.

There was one small problem: Peter had so many awards that I ran out of packing supplies. Using the kitchen dish towels as wrapping paper would work, but where could I store them? I spied the rubber trash cans and decided to stack the awards inside (don’t get ahead of me, people!) and tucked them under the tarp.

After each award was safely preserved, I took one last look around the office and noticed one small but heavy wooden two-drawer file credenza still next to the wall.  My struggles to push it to the center of the office made it twist out of kilter and its drawers sagged open, exposing Peter’s files.  This wouldn’t do; I had to protect the contents, but how? There were no locks on the drawers, and I didn’t want to use masking tape to ruin the wood.  I needed some sort of counterweight.

Then my Eureka, light-bulb moment: a few filled trash cans would be just the right size and weight to do the trick! (In retrospect, perhaps I should have checked the wattage on that light bulb…) I took two from under the tarp and leaned them up against the files. Voila! The cabinet remained closed. 

Now, to me, the tableau was obviously and charmingly ironic: the lowly garbage cans had been transformed into valuable repositories filled with precious contents, had they not? I believed this atypical, non-feng shui presentation of cylindrical rubber filled with rectangular wood would telegraph my intentions, and so I didn’t feel the need to further enlighten the cleaning crew with a note of explanation. I left our workplace that Friday afternoon smiling at my ingenuity and confident that Peter’s precious awards were safe.

My coworkers and I arrived back at work Monday morning to a freshly painted suite, and all of us were soon hard at work moving furniture and rearranging our workspaces. Then I heard my boss’ query: “Chris, have you seen my ‘Region of the Year’ plaque? And my ‘exceeded sales quota’ crystal statuette?  And where’s my satellite launch desk paperweight?” 

I strode into his office explaining, “Peter, they are all in the garbage cans I had leaning against the credenza,” but my voice trailed off when I spotted two empty rubberized receptacles on the floor.

Peter looked incredulously at me as I uttered this phrase, and for the first time I truly comprehended the folly of my actions. The blood drained from my face and I stuttered, “Oh no, I guess they threw them all out,” and froze for a moment. Then, reflex kicked in and I ran. No, not away from my boss, who stood there in shock, but towards the place the mementoes might lay.

I sped out of the suite, galloped down six flights of stairs and sprinted across the parking deck towards the giant industrial dumpsters for the complex. Jumping up and down to peer into the ten-foot-tall containers to find the remnants of my boss’ career would not work: my Florence Griffith-Joyner-esque Olympic high-jump feats were long behind me (or, more truthfully, never existed).  I realized I would have to enlist help in salvaging them.

A ladder! That’s it! I could climb into the dumpsters using a ladder! I ran back up the six flights of stairs to my office to call building management. My love of a good crime scene bubbled up; I was fully intending to do a CSI-style search for these precious bits of memorabilia, much as the shepherd searched for his lost sheep and the woman for her lost pearl in the Gospel of Luke (15:1-9).

Panting from exertion (did you count: that’s twelve flights of stairs and two parking lots’ span of running!), I shouted into the phone, “I need a really tall ladder to climb into the dumpsters for my boss’ awards!” The shocked receptionist told me the dumpster had already been emptied into the commercial garbage truck destined for the landfill, but I was undeterred. “I know I can find the awards!” I interrupted. “Where’s the truck, what’s its company name, and how do I get to the landfill?” 

When I stopped babbling and heard the second half of her explanation “….and they did it all over the weekend,” I knew a search would be futile and turned to look at Peter.

My long-suffering boss calmly uttered, “Chris, I know it was a mistake, don’t worry about it,” at which point I burst into tears. I protested, “No, Peter, you’re wrong! It’s terrible; they’re all gone, and some of those companies don’t exist anymore so they can’t give you the awards again, and that’s your history…” and trailed off.

Peter took the message of the Gospel from John to heart; he knew he could believe in his team’s accomplishments without tangible evidence. These pearls of great price weren’t necessary to prove his team’s worth and value, and my continued employment proved his forgiveness and generosity of spirit.

(Before you apply for canonization for the man, here’s a coda to the story: this little mental lapse of mine somehow became company legend, and it became a running joke whenever someone won a plaque or statuette.  The item would be passed around the room for everyone to admire, and Peter would say with a twinkle in his eye, “Don’t let Chris get hold of it…”)