Different, special, private.

You tell me things can’t get any worse.
You tell me it is darkest before dawn.
But have you tasted the dust of a house reduced to rubble after an air strike?
Have you sat through twenty chemotherapy sessions?
My sorrow is different, special, private.
I won’t let you in on it. I, alone, understand the pain I am passing through.
Unless you walk in my shoes you have no way to understand my pain.
Jesus knelt in the garden – fear dripping in bloody sweat from his brow.
Jesus stares into the eyes of a hurting humanity – you. Does he understand?

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