Wondering in the Parking Lot
Snow surrounds as it swirls through the parking lot.
I sit in my vehicle, engine running, music playing, and I wait.
My cold hands cradle a hot Tim Hortons drink, the heater pulses warmth through the space, and I watch.
The wind gusts and sends delicate snowflakes hurling through the air at explosive speed.
White envelops cars and lamp posts.
And all is gone.
Then there is a moment of calm, as if nature takes a breath before exhaling again.
And the pattern continues.
I watch people drive by.
I see them park, pull up their collars and step gingerly out onto the icy pavement.
Cold people hugged by scarves, gloves, heavy coats and boots.
They struggle to find their way to the grocery store doors, which are now frozen in the open position, allowing winter into the store with its customers.
Temporary relief is found deeper within.
Then people who are finished their errand, exit into the outdoor tempest again.
Blasted with frigid wind and icy pellets that slam into their faces.
And I sit with my drink, in my warm van, hearing the music, and I wonder.
I wonder about the old man, his coat open, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
I wonder about the young man, his bright orange snowmobile coat and boots catching my eye even through the black and white night air.
I wonder about the father and daughter, he wearing Crocs on his feet, and she with bare feet in pumps.
I wonder about the man driving past in his newer looking Mustang.
I wonder about the woman in the old, beat-up Toyota.
I wonder about the two teenage boys, sitting in the nearby Tim Hortons coffee shop, laughing at some joke.
I wonder from my place of calm, sheltered from all the activity outside, and am reminded that everyone has a story.
The song on the radio speaks of God's sovereignty.
And it hits me.
He is part of it all.
He knows each of these people, who they are, what they do, and why they do it.
He doesn't have to wonder about them.
He knows them intimately, whether they are aware of that or not.
He knows their story.
He cares about their story.
And with this moment in the parking lot, He allows me a small glimpse, however blurred by the snowstorm raging beyond my window, of stories unfolding, of people living life.
I sit in my vehicle, engine running, music playing, and I wait.
My cold hands cradle a hot Tim Hortons drink, the heater pulses warmth through the space, and I watch.
The wind gusts and sends delicate snowflakes hurling through the air at explosive speed.
White envelops cars and lamp posts.
And all is gone.
Then there is a moment of calm, as if nature takes a breath before exhaling again.
And the pattern continues.
I watch people drive by.
I see them park, pull up their collars and step gingerly out onto the icy pavement.
Cold people hugged by scarves, gloves, heavy coats and boots.
They struggle to find their way to the grocery store doors, which are now frozen in the open position, allowing winter into the store with its customers.
Temporary relief is found deeper within.
Then people who are finished their errand, exit into the outdoor tempest again.
Blasted with frigid wind and icy pellets that slam into their faces.
And I sit with my drink, in my warm van, hearing the music, and I wonder.
I wonder about the old man, his coat open, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
I wonder about the young man, his bright orange snowmobile coat and boots catching my eye even through the black and white night air.
I wonder about the father and daughter, he wearing Crocs on his feet, and she with bare feet in pumps.
I wonder about the man driving past in his newer looking Mustang.
I wonder about the woman in the old, beat-up Toyota.
I wonder about the two teenage boys, sitting in the nearby Tim Hortons coffee shop, laughing at some joke.
I wonder from my place of calm, sheltered from all the activity outside, and am reminded that everyone has a story.
The song on the radio speaks of God's sovereignty.
And it hits me.
He is part of it all.
He knows each of these people, who they are, what they do, and why they do it.
He doesn't have to wonder about them.
He knows them intimately, whether they are aware of that or not.
He knows their story.
He cares about their story.
And with this moment in the parking lot, He allows me a small glimpse, however blurred by the snowstorm raging beyond my window, of stories unfolding, of people living life.
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