It’s good Friday. The words of Bonhoeffer ruminate in my head and the world around me vacillates between winter and spring. The day, the words, the surroundings speak of death. Those trailing flowers I pass by every day on my way to work have moved from tiny buds to full-fledged blooms and I’m reminded that death always brings about life. The words of a wise man, spoken years ago in a time of vision seeming to die, ring in my head again: “In order for something new to come, something has to die.” It speaks a hope over the death of dreams and a season that has made me aware of just how failing my flesh is. The thoughts leave as quickly as they enter and I go about my day. I find myself skimming the newspaper handed to me by the man changing my oil. My eyes are drawn to a section on chronic pain and I read about a newer perspective of doctors regarding this issue: the focus has shifted from attempting to take away all pain, to trying to reduce it. I