I can't write to you now. People make jokes about the wheelchair, about me hopping around. I laugh. I really am... happy. I wouldn't let a sprain stop me from being happy. But it's the reason I can't write.
You're one of the only people I'm completely honest with, you always have been. I didn't want you to see my despair. The frustration.
It's not just the ankle. It's more than that. It's about being weak. It's about what I am.
The injury just gave me too much time to think.
I'm holding back on you now. I can't tell you everything. I'm sorry. I'll talk about something else.
...
Why do we seek help in times of weakness? Why do we seek God? I say "we", but I mean other people. They say it is God's way of showing us that we need him. I'm not arrogant. Not in this matter, at least. I just don't feel the need to depend on someone else.
In fact, I feel furthest from God when I'm weak.
Do you know that story about magic? I read it in some old fantasy anthology. The book didn't even have a cover.
It was about two boys who wanted to learn magic. They went into the desert where a magician lived in a tower, and asked him to teach them. The magician gave them chores, and only taught them the most basic methods of meditation.
One day, he took the boys out into the desert, for a stroll. When they reached the top of a dune, they saw a large monster. Unfortunately, the monster saw them too. The magician could have fought it, but he closed his eyes, called upon his magic, and flew into the sky.
The monster was getting closer. One of the boys remembered a small cave, too small for the monster, that they had passed a while back, and turned around, ran to it quickly. The other boy closed his eyes. Desperately.
In the sky, the magician told his pupil, "Magic comes to those who need it."
Yours,
Jared.
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