Juxtaposition

As I write this I am sitting on a big comfy couch in my living room watching The Fugitive on our fancy flat screen tv with a warm cup of fair trade coffee.  Last night, I slept in my own bed, in my own room, surrounded by my own crap, in my own house, near people who call me their own.   I am clean, I am safe, I am blessed. 

Seven days ago I sat on a rickety fold-up chair in the common space of Mary's Place watching wise women pour out advice, stories, hurts, successes, pains and hopes.  The night before I slept on the floor, without a pillow, in a room of smelly (but wonderful) people, in a church I can't call my own.   I was dirty, I was uncertain, and I was blessed. 

What a weird juxtaposition to be a part of.