The Poseur

When pride comes, then comes shame
--Proverbs 11:2

The trouble with being an accomplished poseur, while having a chronic incurable disease, is that you may end up convincing others that there really is nothing at all wrong with you--which is, by the way, something which others start out wanting to believe anyway. The efforts, therefore, that you make toward perfecting the appearance of function in both body and mind end up being all the proof they need to pronounce you as being in fact perfectly well.

At the same time, you have set a standard that you cannot ultimately hope to live up to. Failure is guaranteed, because success had never been any more than a trick of smoke and mirrors. Things happen, things come up. Suddenly you are called upon to function according to the competence you have pretended to, and the mighty fortress falls flat, having consisted of nothing but ashes to begin with. You disappoint not only yourself, but others whom you have fooled into faith.

You made your own bed, now sleep in it. That's what my mother used to say.

The poseur, who at the very base of things means to save his own pride and self respect, lays his own trap, nurtures the very revelation that he fears.

Failing oneself is always forgivable. Failing other people can be devastating.

We who have MS find ourselves in some sense running from what is already ahead of us.

Upon The Late Hour

Those with whom we would most desire to speak are those who for one reason or another we are unable to speak with. Such is the frustration of life, which finally must dangle in the air like an unfinished sentence. The heart longs for the completion that can only be had in perfect comprehension. There are some who cannot hear, having taken their ears to the grave. There are some who will not hear, having surrendered the love that comes from God to the arrogant pride that dwells in the flesh. There is nothing, nothing, more terrible than silence.