This is the truth:
I write this as I lay on a borrowed bed, typing at a computer half paid for by me, half paid by my parents. Of course the half paid by me is actually from people who love me and give freely. But back to my borrowed bed. It has a quilt resting on it, a very nice one of blue and red and grey. It too was given, years ago, by a strange lady, but given in kindness nonetheless. I read by a lamp purchased as a gift to me. It rests on an old suitcase that doubles as a night stand. The old night stand once belonged to my great grandmother, and bears her name inside it.
Even the pillows I rest my head upon were a gift. I can recall only purchasing one of them. (I have four on this bed right now, and I'm not sure how that happened.) I sleep in a room I didn't earn. I live with a family that somehow loves me. I've watched their oldest grow since he was an infant, and last night he was given a Timothy Award. It means he's a really good kid. Unearned, I watch the middle boy laugh. Unearned, I watch little Stella dance.
I look around this room. There's a cross on the wall to my left. On the front is the inscription “Amazing Love,” but I love it most for the writings on the back. It contains a note from my father and mother, a private blessing. Above this cross is a picture of my brother. He's sitting on the bow of a boat, turning back for a moment and smiling, inviting me into the joy of the water. I didn't earn him, either. He came with the world when I met it.
There's a lot in my life I didn't earn. The quiet night outside. The cool breeze from my window. My lungs and the air that fills them.
To be honest, I have nothing. But in truth...