I find myself reading once again C. S. Lewis’ discussion on forgiveness in The Weight of Glory. It is masterful writing that takes the tough nut of forgiveness and cracks it open to reveal it simply, understandably. But what jumped off the page at me today was this tidbit from that discussion – “we are all too easily satisfied with ourselves.”
I let that soak in a bit and then came to think of it as truth, but then positioned near its bookend (not from Lewis, but me) that “we are all too easily dissatisfied with ourselves.” It occurs to me that these are the bookends between which I am to compose a life. THAT, I don’t know as truth, but I’ll mull on it a bit.
It occurs to me... 