Grace

Three times have I tried to think, three times failed. This morning the MS in my brain will not have it. Three sentences have I begun, three have collapsed. My mind itself is pressed to a corner by the void, the paralysis of disease.

Concerning this thing I pleaded with the Lord three times that it might depart from me. And He said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness."

That's it! Paul's mysterious affliction was MS.

Good thing there is so much weakness in the world, and particularly in me, in order that the Lord might be strengthened.

It seems this morning that I can actually feel the scars on my brain. I sense them, I know them. They are evident according to what they will not allow, just as the wind is evident only in those things which are actuated--the swaying of tree limbs, the paths in the tall grass.

This comes without warning, without reason, other than itself--not reason, but condition. What functioned yesterday functions not today. Two parts of me have been chosen: My brain and my right knee. Both are frozen.

Two parts chosen,
two parts frozen,
and tomorrow a dice game,
snake eyes or boxcars,
grace is Lucifer's word for disease

I keep fighting, even though the battle is lost. This is the Alamo. This is Custer's last stand.

History has given Custer short shrift. Honestly. Some say that he was careless, over confident. But in the cavalry of his time those same words might have been courage and daring. In the Civil War, before Little Big Horn, Custer was known as one of the rare hard fighters among the otherwise timid Federal cavalry commanders. At Gettysburg his brigade frustrated the efforts of Jeb Stuart's famous horsemen to turn the army's right flank.

This is the conclusion of scars. These are what the plaques have to say. My Little Big Horn waits. I am on my way.