In all of this I realized, if I want to write, or if I want to make anything that might truly be called art then I must not simply be acquainted with the wounds of the world–I must became a cartographer of my own wounds. I must map their terrain and navigate their crevices to trace their fissures and fault lines. The gangrenous stench of their festering must sting my nostrils. I must learn the cadence of my own limping. But I must also hear the voice that echoes off the walls of the empty tomb–He is not here. He is risen. It is only in Christ where both the sorrow and the joy of the world perfectly meet. It is the wounded one who purchases for us a woundless world where all the sad things become untrue.

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