it makes me sad

Two women in the past two days have shopped at Ann Taylor with black eyes. I remember my dad telling me stories from his days on street patrol about men getting mean on Christmas because they hated themselves for not being better fathers and husbands. It was sad but I didn't have to think about it. Confronted with the reality, I wanted to cry. Instead I clacked briskly around in heels helping them return unwanted clothing and getting things for their daughters to try on.

Maranatha, please. I hate the thought of this happening in the world. Even more than the suffering, it's the acceptance and endurance of suffering that sticks a knife in my gut.