Parking Decks of Life
I’m driving through this concrete beast—this megalith of steel and exhaust. The lines are painted white, but the people crossing them come in every shade of hurry and hope. Cars shimmer like social class on wheels—Mercedes saints, Honda sinners, Kia Souls like mine trying to keep up with the faithful and the fallen.
The road is flat, then dips. Flat, then drops again. Every descent feels like a heartbeat going under. Above me, green signs whisper commands like prophets in neon: PARK. OUT. PARK. OUT.
And I keep going out—further from the level ground, further into the echo of my own thoughts—while somewhere, in a sterile room, an IV drips one drop at a time into my son’s arm.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Mercy, measured in liquid seconds.
And lately, I can’t help but wonder… when the jug of milk runs dry, when the butter jar scrapes clean, when the last grain of coffee falls—what then? Who’ll still be standing? Who’ll be gone? Who’ll meet Jesus face to face, and who’ll still be fighting to believe He’s real?
By the time I make it out of this parking lot—out of this maze of concrete prayers and painted exits—what will be left?
By the time this coffee maker hisses its last breath…
By the time the Folgers tin echoes empty…
By the time every cup is drained—
The cup once runneth over.
But sometimes—
the cup runs out.
And yet… even when it does, God has this strange way of filling what’s empty.
Not all at once—never flashy, never loud—but drop by drop.
Mercy dripping slow into the hollow places.
Grace refilling the cup when you’re too tired to lift it.
And somewhere between out and empty,
you realize—He’s been pouring a cup of warmth, invading your tired soul,
the whole time.
Sometimes when time runs out—when the IV bag runs dry, when the chemo is all gone—good things happen.
Vinnie said he’s happier now than he’s ever been.
Happier because he knows Jesus.
He looked at me and said, “You’re right, Dad. The closer you get to God, the happier you are. Even now, I find the further I drift from Him, the more miserable I become. But the closer I get to God through Jesus—the happier I am.
So I thank God for cancer. Because when I first got it, I was a horrible person. Even back in high school. But cancer brought me to Jesus. And then I met the love of my life, Kaylee.
And I thank God for cancer.
And Kaylee.
And you.”