I remember, as a young child, staring at the red-painted wounds on the hands and feet of the Sacred Heart statue in my bedroom. Sometimes I’d run my fingers over them and look at the kind face of Jesus. I often wondered how he could still be smiling. Didn’t he know he had holes in him?
I can also still picture the pages of my illustrated Bible: Jesus carrying his Cross through crowded streets, and then the striking double-page image of Mount Calvary. These were the pages I returned to most often, quietly pondering how much it must have hurt him.
