Everyone needs a roof over their head. Even with His promise of eternal peace, Heaven can be merciless to those yet to ascend. I grew up beneath a roof of humble tin. Anyone of Heaven’s summer tantrums transformed the roof into a metal drum. At night, in bed, the hypnotic rhythm lulled me to sleep. Insomniacs and people who cannot stand a moment of silence pay good money to hear that sound playing through a lo-fi cell phone speaker on the nightstand. Tin was simple, probably cheap, too, but it wasn’t the best option. It required regular coats of special paint like a battleship or the Golden Gate bridge. In the summer the attic was a dangerous sauna, in the winter, a meat locker. Many Spanish roofs are thatched and kept in perpetual antiquity by their town’s heritage site status. Finding a leak in a burly cluster of reeds must be troublesome. Perhaps one day the community leaders will upgrade like the quaint hamlet of Lacock that naps quietly beneath slate tiles, likely cut from the same Druid quarry as nearby Stonehenge. I live beneath a modern roof but it needs an upgrade despite the 30 year guarantee. Fifteen Texas summers would weaken the resolve of any citadel. I wear a cowboy hat whenever I brave the the elements. It is a personal roof that is both portable and affordable, and, depending on who you ask, fashionable. Despite this aegis, however, my resolve has weakened like so many hangdog roofs around here and it won’t be long before I remove my hat and accept the furious glory of Heaven.
Dear Reader, just for fun I used WP’s artificial intelligence tools to generate the title and the image. The content of the post is all Truelove.
John Truelove 