by John Krohn PhD

Created on: August 29, 2008   Last Updated: September 04, 2008

The pathways that we all journey in life are often strewn with the jagged edged stones of disappointment. The more worn the pathway through the years, the more evident are the memorials along the way; altars of courage and hope that have been painstakingly made by the faithful trembling hands of the pilgrim traveler. The stones are readily seen as obstacles to our physical and spiritual health, but God knows that every altar of deeper commitment is made of the heavy stones of suffering, sacrifice and then acts of faithful obedience.

Woven throughout the history of mankind, is the undeniable reality of human suffering. Whether translated from cuneiform tablets of clay, deciphered from the hieroglyphics of ancient Egypt or painstakingly etched upon leather parchments by a Hebrew scribe, suffering and life are seamless companions. What has always inspired humanity in its search for sustainable hope and courage in the midst of tragedy and loss is not the innumerable examples of suffering found in history, but the indisputable discovery of renewed faith and the realization of the presence of God in the midst of suffering.

One morning, while sitting in a secluded corner perusing through a stack of books at a Barnes and Noble bookstore, I found myself a bit distracted by the amount of traffic and activity coming from an aisle not far away. Every few moments, someone would stroll by, glance at a few titles here and there, and then head for what seemed to be the busiest place in the store. Thinking that I was missing out on some free cookies to go with my Starbucks coffee, I decided I would investigate. To my curious surprise I found the isle packed with people searching for some kind of self-help book to perchance discover the latest keys to happiness, how to be successful in business or new insights to solving a myriad of emotional and spiritual maladies and afflictions.

Cookiless' and disappointed, I returned to my secluded corner only to find that someone had taken my seat and was "pursuing through" my stack of books that I was interested in possibly purchasing. I was thankful that I had taken my coffee with me. What was insightful to me was not so much the discovery of the mystery of the noisy aisle. I was surprised at my reaction to losing my seat in the corner, and that someone else, not me, was enjoying the books that I had so painstakingly selected. Then I noticed something that I had initially missed. The gentlemen in my seat had two artificial foot prosthetics

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