I have one question.
And my question is why.
Beads of sweat glistening on my brow, three-fourths of the way down the field on a mission to plunder noxious weeds– I stop. I stare horrified at nothingness as the agonized words of my friend pound home.
“Why!?! . . . People cry over little stories of cats and dogs–“
“But there’s no weeping over the cross.”
“No sorrow over the sacrifice.”