My Bench

This morning I noticed that someone cleaned my bench. Perhaps I should define "my bench." My bench, though not mine by purchase or deed, is mine by label. One I have given it. My bench.

I found it on my second day of work on the walk I took on my lunch break. It is neatly nestled under a tree, to which it is also chained. (This is a quality of my bench that would make it seem much more belonging to the tree than to myself. But for now, we can just brush past that obvious point.) My bench is set a few yards from some rusted railroad tracks and sparse but well placed shrubbery that create a psudeo-scenic feel to the industrial park in which I work. It is a patch of serenity in the middle of diesel trucks and bustling shipping stations. In the morning I come to work and sit on my bench for a few moments of solace, reflection, and time with God before the day beings. On my bench.

I've recently identified that am contemplative. I know it's only an adjective but let me take a moment to clarify. I've known this about myself for a while I suppose, but I recently, I put a label on it. And as we know, it's all about labels. And of course, my bench. Where I contemplate in the morning. Becuase now both have the appropiate labels.

I haven't yet figured out who cleaned my bench, but undoubtedly it was one of the warehouse guys. They are always kind. Always working hard. Always asking me questions about my faith. Always making me think. Reflect. Contemplate. And this morning, I think one of them cleaned my bench.