The kingdom of heaven is like a parking lot.
A church parking lot
where spaces are gotten, but mostly free.
Cars, trucks, vans (and even motorcycles) have their place.

Most days the parking lot patiently waits.
At times for a patron.
Always for a visitor.
Occasionally, a school bus, delivery truck, or mail carrier making use of its asphalt turns ‘round. The twist leaves tire marks like an icon of repentance.

The kingdom of heaven is like a well-worn parking lot,
its tacit function not altogether obvious.
Think parking? It shows you a pilgrim.
Found a spot? Next time, it’s claimed.
One’s sweltering plight? Find relief through its sultry saints.

Parking fortune,
and destiny,
and lot, remembered
and forgotten at once.