Poster Cures

     I do not ask for cures--not for poster cures, at least.
     Poster children may raise money for research.  Research leads to cures.
     Yet, poster children play on other people's guilt.  Poster children are perched on the pinnacle of, "she is worse of than you are."
     Research is very worthwhile--it is a necessary endeavor.
     Yet, how do I reconcile poster children--their pinnacle--with the benefits they bring to research.  How can we reconcile poster children with the benefits they enable through research.
     Cures do nothing to address PAST anguish.  Cures ignore anguish of today.  I cannot seek cures at the cost of other's pain.  I may not hide between emotions of sorrow or pity.  I may not hide behind the pain others feel.
     Maybe...just maybe...if I raze the roadblocks of pity and sorrow each day, I may help another person to alleviate their pain--the pain of this day, of this moment.
     I may not hide behind "underprivileged--behind "those who are worse off than me." 

Suffering--Accepted Sorrow

One has to accept sorrow for it to be of any healing power
                              The Abbess of Andalusia: Flannery O'Connor's Spiritual Journey                                                                                      by Lorraine V. Murray         p. xiv
     Suffering need not be a static, negative experience.  There is a huge difference between suffering and seeking suffering.  I do not subscribe to Julian of Norwich's appeal to God to be given a bodily illness to draw her closer to Christ--closer to God.
     Yet, I do not run from my own suffering--literally or figuratively.  A younger person might say, "Cure me of this debilitating state of being."  I am old enough to know that the entirety of my cerebral palsy may not be cured by the stroke of a magic wand--by the artful manipulation of surgical implements.  I have and I will submit myself to surgery to mediate the effects of my cerebral palsy.  
     If I do not believe that I may be cured by any means, what then?  Does my conviction give me license to give up?  Does my conviction give me entree to fill the position of victim to make my living?    
     I think not.
     To speak of our lives as God's gift to us is understood often to be arrogant.      
     I disagree.    
     Life experience with my cerebral palsy has led me to view walking as a gift.  Yet, as often as I utter the words, "Walking is a gift," the words sound alien--contrived--to my ear.    
     Yet, to my heart, "Walking is a gift," is an intimate companion.  How does my ear--how does my mind--befriend, "Walking is a gift?"
    Suffering--accepted sorrow--is the vehicle that transforms, "Walking is a given," to "Walking is a gift."