Roger And Our Dirty Skin

I would love to show you a photo of old Roger so you could see what I see: that he's just the most beautiful. His leather-like face is thickly etched with time-lines, his hair is unhygienic, lousy . . . his skin wears pockmarks and blackheads like some woman wear pearls and polka dots. He doesn't have any top teeth that I can see beyond his overgrown mustache and whew! if he doesn't smell like an unwashed decade. He wears baggy velour track pants, three jackets, scars across his heart and no [ read more... ]

my heart wasn’t made for this.

There are times when I feel like all the seeing and knowing and hearing and reading . . . all the immediate access we have to everything in the world at the same time can't be good for our wee God-woven hearts? And to top it off we have a veritable highway of opinion and commentary for the entirety of it. And this million-lane-wide-opinion-highway is without speed limits or traffic violations or ticket-writing-police and there are engines burning at 8000 rpm's and can someone please let me off [ read more... ]

the :: c :: word

:: source :: “Compassion is the sometimes fatal capacity for feeling what it is like to live inside somebody else's skin.”  ~ Frederick Buechner Is that why we suffer from "compassion fatigue"? My own damn skin is hard enough to live inside of {thank-you very much} without crawling inside yours as well. And I'm not even---necessarily---talking about the overseas, bloated-bellies-burning-under-the-heat-of-an-African-desert-sun kind of compassion. Although, the description fits. I've heard [ read more... ]