Then again, the lingering headache may have something to do with it.
The headache that is nothing if not persistent in its erosion of brain cells.
The parking lot is busy even out here in the back forty. The entire east side, it seems, is shopping this afternoon.
It's October and yet I'm sweating. But, to be fair, that may be due to the lingering fever I refuse to acknowledge.
Now that I've parked, the tired that's been gnawing away at the edges returns to front-and-center, so I slide sideways- taking advantage of the bench seat- and somehow find myself folded around the shifter and the seat buckles.
From this new vantage point, the radio seems louder, the sky seems bigger around the windows and roof of the truck cab, and the neural implosion has somewhat lessened its percussive ricocheting.
Somehow, quietly, it all seems so real.
The sick, broken and needy sighing for rescue; Whispering words they half-expect to never be heard.
"But when he saw the multitudes he was moved with compassion on them, because the fainted, and were scattered abroad as sheep having no shepherd."
The old Story that plays again on the radio sings it's way back into my heart.
Over and over, "moved with compassion," the Hero becomes part of the story He wrote.
The heat is comforting, reassuring and grounding.
