With apologies to Buckaroo

Over the next couple of days, I'll be posting a series of responses to some questions that were asked of me earlier this year. They are by no means exhaustive replies, really only just skimming the surface of subjects people far wiser than I have tackled in greater depth and with varying degrees of success.
In an almost-tongue-in-cheek move, we'll call the series:

In Defense of Suffering

The Short Form

Sorry Buckaroo B.

"Enterprises of great pitch and moment"

How do you know when you've found, and then crossed, the line of what you'll tolerate and what is too much?

But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we no not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.

For me, I don't seem to find that line until it's so far past that it's barely noticeable. And then everything comes to a frothing red boil and explodes.

"The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks" that Hamlet mourns lay quiet, until suddenly it's all just too much, and I stand, broken and seething; screaming for justice that I only half-believe will ever come.

A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out,

till he leads justice to victory.

And it is...

It only took a couple of months, but Mendicant Royalty is now on Twitter. Follow @mendicantryalty.

I can't promise it'll be entertaining. Please give it a try anyway.

Let's see if this is all connected correctly. Not going to lie, there's a certain sense of accomplishment in all this.

It is vain, sir, to extenuate the matter.

Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace.

The war is actually begun!

The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethern are already in the field!

Why stand we here idle?

The war is already begun. And I am here. Feeling as though I'm standing idle.

This week there has been unrest in my city. Not in my home, but in the place on the other side of the world that captured my heart and my imagination.

And I am here.

What is that gentlemen wish? What would they have?

What am I waiting for? What is it that keeps me from seeking God's heart, furiously demanding in humble reverence that He reveals what He has for me? I am mendicant, yes. Having taken begging orders, I am dependent on the Providence of the Most High. If nothing else, these past few months have been a front row seat to the learning how to correctly answer, "who provides for your needs?"
And yet, I am also royalty. And therefore entitled to ask My Father how best to carry His Name. I am promised the resources of Heaven to aid me as I walk His path.
And yet, I wait, too afraid...

Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery?

Are these fleeting distractions, the momentary pleasures of entertainment and self-satisfaction worth this misery? Worth this feeling left behind?

Mendicant royalty though I am, I don't know how to devote myself.

So, therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, throw off
-- whether by your own decision or the discipline of the Almighty-- anything that can jam you up and keep you from the race before you.
Everyone trains. The question is what you are training for, and how well you are using your time.
You are in a legitimately difficult situation, although you aren't as bad off as you think or have the perspective to see.
So take heart! The fact that you are suffering is only a reflection of who you are being claimed as.
You matter.
And for this reason you are having a difficult time. You see, noncombatants don't get a second glance in the thick of the battle.
Dig in deep, game on.
Put on the whole armor. Do whatever it takes to tie the truth around you so tightly that there's nothing to get tangled up in. Stand firm where you've been planted, but be ready to move, and move quickly.
Get wisdom, despite how much it may cost you in the middle of your trials. Fix your eyes on what, and Who you know to be true.
Consider him faithful who made the promise. Make choices where you put your feet and your heart.
You are in the middle of a story. All the saints and prophets, broken people and sinful patriarchs of old point the way, crying out for a better city.
A place to belong and be wanted, claimed.
So, weak though you are, work on.
It's in following your commandments, your instructions that you are made strong. Your brokeness is healed. Your wounds are bound up. And your scars have meaning.
Take heart! For I have overcome the world.

Even from here I could hear the timbers burning, collapsing into each other and falling.

It took a moment, heartbeats framed in a lifetime, to realize how long it had been burning.
The precise moment it changed from a feeble flicker into a raging blaze slipped past unnoticed. I knew the flames had been there, had sensed them all along, but this...

This was a destruction.

My better nature fought against a sense of self preservation.

The latter wanting to run and save would, could be collected, putting out the flames with skin and tears if necessary.
The former sighing that flames serve as a catalyst, making way for the Phoenix.

I watched as the markers of a history and identity added to the flood that marred the sky.