Sometimes, when I need to get perspective, I drive to the hospital parking lot.
11 o’clock at night, one of three cars on the empty blacktop, I watch the man walk his dog. I watch the white bug crawl up the windshield. I watch the empty windows. Watch the unmoving doors. Listen to the night traffic and the buzz of parking lot lights.
I think about all the broken people sleeping on the other side of the walls. I am broken. They are broken. We are broken. The hot summer air is thick and the bugs loud and the lights bright and I think about the things broken people say to other broken people.
‘I love you. Things will get better. We’ll be okay.’
I think about me and I think about them and I think about God.
God who made us poor creatures. God who doesn’t explain why things break. God who sits with me in a hospital parking lot and whispers,
I stare at the wall. Watch the man disappear with his dog in the night. Rest my weary head on the steering wheel.
Somehow, I know He is right.