My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Offering Pain Instead
They asked to sit one at his right, the other at his left. It was something he could not give. Instead he offered what was so much more powerful -- his pain. It could be shared with friends and in being shared might become less. Pain cannot be understood by the stranger, by the person who cannot feel what it means to you. In offering it to them, Jesus may have been saying he trusted in their love for him.
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