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August 21, 2008
Routine worship. I spotted the handicapped boy early—walker scratch-rolling, one-sided leaning. Suddenly, a blink. Clarity sharpened. Heaven began swirling terrestrial. Soon, every person coming in: visibly maimed. Crutches, wheelchairs, canes. Wracked, malformed, amputated. Gaping, desperate, there was nowhere to conceal brokenness. I began to shake, crying and nodding my head in assent. I knew He was answering nagging questions of unfairness. He knew if I saw how fragmented we are—all needing palettes lowered by our friends at Jesus’ feet—if I saw everyone’s insides on the outside, too, I could see his lens, sense compassion, urgency towards wholeness.