How to be an oppressor

OppressorWeariness hung from his facial muscles like lead weights on fishing lines. His hair, recently mauled by the suburban Chicago winds, reflected the gusts of reproach he had just battled. His jaw was set like that of a courtroom defendant whose guilty verdict was still echoing in his ears as he came to lay his pile of frustrations on the counter just long enough to write out a check to the seminary business office and be on his way.

Something told me he was having a rough day. It didn’t take long for me to dig it out of him. I guess he thought I would empathize.

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