On my way to and from work this week I drove past a European automobile showcase floor, sandwiched between office buildings and the local chapter of some variety of guild. A few blocks later I passed derelict apartment buildings, uncared for since their haphazard construction.
A little earlier in the week I sat in the quiet, cool halls of the Federal Courthouse, sent there by work to get information on a case. The hush of the marble halls and the faux-marble pillars adorning the courtroom doors conveyed a silent message of some kind.
When I was at the library, a weather-beaten man, wrinkled but clean, looked up as I walked past. He nodded his head, but when I smiled at him, his face lit up, opened.
In class today I was told that the sun is going to burn out in 3 billion years. That "stars are made of other stars." Now, I wasn't left with a feeling of impending doom after such a dire prediction, but rather with a sense of wonder that it hadn't already burnt out. We exist in such a delicate balance. We lose touch, perhaps, with simpler things.
And then there are the people. The harried executive, immaculate in his suit but weighed down with a briefcase and a cell phone, the man sleeping on the cold wrought iron bench and the teenager happily snapping pictures with her acne-plagued boyfriend.
I walked along the side of the street, my heels clicking as I crossed. All the while the sun still warms the air, lighting the sky.
A symbol, a covenant that I- along with the European auto show floor, the tenants of the dilapidated apartment buildings, the message broadcast in a whisper from the courthouse, the weather-beaten men, the harried business executive and the young lovers- are treasured by the Lord and not forgotten.
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