I simply refuse to make a martyr of my joy in order to save someone who is unwilling to reach for my hand. There’s madness in the logic that I–that we–must sacrifice our time, energy, welfare, and sanity to make a difference. The difference is often so microscopic it is invisible to the naked eye. The rewards are so infrequent they cannot be celebrated. The bitterness, oh the bitterness, festers like asbestos on the soul because no one wants to acknowledge the futility of it all. And there is no honor in the small victories when you’re always told you could do more, be more, give more, reach more. That is not to say no one can be saved; it is to say that even Jesus can’t save everyone from damnation, and I am merely a mortal with a piece of chalk.