When the Sunday meal was over, we walked down to the barn to look over the livestock and, as my companion said, "to give the women folk room to clean up the mess."

I always enjoyed going to that quiet out of the way ranch nestled among the hills alongside the meandering Brazos River. We stopped by the chicken pen, and I noticed one running wildly about with a bloodied head and the others in pursuit.

"What is wrong with him?" I asked.

"Well," he replied, "every once in awhile a chicken cuts its comb on the wire fence, and the others peck it to death."

Later, I had cause to ponder on that cruel fact. Folk stumble in life's way, bruised by the subtle power of sin, hurt in spirit, wounded and bloodied. Other folk just won't leave them alone. They pick and pick at them with their gossip, criticism, and holy manners until they die a little each day.

Our Lord taught us the essence of our faith is compassion: to suffer with a downed comrade, to lift up the bruised neighbor and say, Take care of him; and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again, I will repay thee.."