I’m at the end of a week attending a technical conference on the Las Vegas Strip and all I can think about is how much I miss the quiet, calm, ordered home in which I live with my my wife.
The Driven, Party City
This city is the poster child of loud, in-your-face, busy, showy, over-the-top living if there ever was one. I’ve had to walk around young women on the sidewalk dressed, or rather undressed, in a manner that would not be shown on the five o’clock news. I’ve walked passed multiple people, mostly men, sitting on the pedestrian bridges with their cash jars out, requesting your donation so that they can get some weed, or in one case a prostitute. The beating sounds from the casinos and clubs loudly push out any chance of having a personal thought. I’m tired of saying no to the endless requests from mall workers for just a few minutes of my time and an offer of a free sample. I’m struck by the uneasy decision I’ve made to not look others in the eyes as I walk down the sidewalk for fear that they’ll push another stripper girl calling card in my hand.
As I think about the reasons why I don’t care for this place, I’ve day-dreamed a bit about Jesus, wondering what his response would be walking through the malls, across the pedestrian bridges and along the sidewalks. I see him looking at the down-and-out straight in the eyes and letting them know they have value. He’s not in a hurry and bothered by the masses either.
This city has some serious shortcomings. So do I.