At which point does being there for someone become advocation? There is a fine line between the care and concern I desire to express and the truth people grapple with when seclusion draws it forth from the depths we attempt to bury Him in, but that stone was rolled away and He walked again and will forevermore. There are rules of our own making which we bend every day. The irony is overwhelming, and all amusment has since fled my cognizance. What chuckles emit from my breast are of sadness and disappointment in being a witness. What shame have we in our own sin? We are blinded. I had a conversation with my dad earlier while I was driving him back and forth to Publix. First for batteries, and second for a prescription. When we’re on the road most of the commentary we make is how unbelievable it is that people make the decisions they do behind the wheel. I remember being as careless. It’s sin manifested as selfishness and it creeps in like a cancer throughout all our senses. It doesn’t matter if kids are in the car, or what the laws governing our roads say, get out of my way. Entitlement is a virtue for the foolish, though I do my best to pass no judgments. I can’t help but wonder at what’s going on in their lives. I realize we don’t think, most of, if not half of the time, but man can we pull over and just talk about it? Seriously, I want to know. I will cry with you. I’ll buy you a coffee or some food, just tell me where you’re at, because I need to understand. Don’t you want to understand? All I know is that most of, if not everything, I don’t, but I woke up crying today—and that sort of makes sense to me—the most, out of anything.