You Are Here

Get a map.
Take your index finger and point to your country, your state, your city, you street...
A look at the solar system.
Point to your planet.
You are here.

I was opening mail at work. Occasionally with the private pay checks, patients will send tracts, or Bible verses. (Although, on Wednesday, I got a handwritten note from a thirty year old woman with Medicaid who called me a "fucking dumbass who did't do (my) job worth shit". Like everything else in this world, responses vary.) On Thursday there was a post card with a picture of the sun and the earth. An arrow pointed to earth and read, you are here.

Flip the postcard over. It goes on to read that we are all going to die someday. And wouldn't we rather spend eternity with a God who was big enough to create that sun than burn in hell? Fire and brimstone. Hellfire and damnation. The only sliver of hope was that we may be forgiven. But how? Read your Bible the postcard said. Daily. That is the answer.

I took the postcard home with me.

If only to remind me that I am here.

On this earth only the fraction of the size of the sun. Created by a God who (I can't imagine) dwells so much on Hell as He does loving us. That if we ask, we are forgiven. That these imperfections and sins and misdeeds and impurities are thrown as far as the east is from the west. Do you know how far that is? Go out tomorrow morning and start walking towards the sun. When you get there, let me know. That's how far.

I love a God who, when I ask Him how much He loves me, He stretches out His infinite arms. "I love you this much."

Is it really about burning in Hell? Is that the message we want to be sending through the USPS? For strangers to open, read, laugh at, and throw away? Maybe it has inspired a few. I pray it has done more good than harm. But in the world we live in... in the country, in the state, in the city, on the street.... it seems to me that love is what we need to hear.

You are here. You are loved.

And even on afternoons like this I feel it. Afternoons when another huge life decision is about to be made. I could be houseless in three weeks. I could have to pack up all my things for a third time... load them into the Corolla, and find a place to crash. A landing spot. A resting place. For two months and then I will load up again and get an apartment. And a cat. I will name him Solomon and I will have a key to the front door again. I'm not so much scared as I am in great anticipation.

I sat with my roommate late last night and watched as college students walked in and out of the lounge. People I knew. People I didn't. People I would meet in a matter of moments. Bob usually works in the back. He has a limp red afro and can't handle money very well. I like him. Tyler is leaving for Iraq in three weeks. He recognized my face... but didn't remember who I was until he saw my tattoo. My housemate and I talked about the next couple of weeks. The past few weeks. About our families and dates and our bitterness. And when I dropped her back off at her car...she climbed in and leaned out the window and yelled, "I'm going to miss you, Anna!"

I am on the edge.

Trying to be both good and lovely.

Breaking alabaster.

In the middle of it all.

Walking through a land unknown.

I am here. And I am loved.