There’s some convention in town, and the campus swarms with people in every direction. I turn into my usual parking lot to find that there’s no parking on any of the lower levels. I’m driving around and around the parking lot, whiplashed and frustrated.
Finally, I’m spit out into the light of the uppermost deck of the lot (nobody wants these spots because everybody knows about the pigeons that assault your car with excremental gifts).
I pull into a spot far, far away, and as I walk through pigeon droppings, I look out over the valley (I’m that high up).
It’s gorgeous. The sky is clear blue, and the wind whips across my face. I take a deep breath and look out across the mountains in the distance. I actually stop right there in the pigeon droppings and gaze out. I’m humbled and diminished by how small I am compared to this huge valley.
I’m thankful for this particular inconvenience and this particular mess. It’s beautiful up here, and I wouldn’t have seen it had I found a spot lower down.
Living with flair means I realize my missed opportunity might spit me out onto a higher level–the one that has the thing I’m supposed to see.
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Journal: Is God in control of even inconvenience?
