Even though I was very angry with Mike, it didn't last long. After he was dressed, he went downstairs and began listening to King's X. After a few minutes, he called me to come listen to "It's Love." He was crying, which always stops me in my tracks. "Oh, honey, what's wrong?" I asked.

He started boo-hooing. "Do you realize what a great guitar solo that is?" he finally blurted.

"Sounds like something you might have done," I answered, realizing it was intricate and advanced.

"I'm no Ty Tabor, but I learned to play that," he said between sobs; "Larry Brewer couldn't even do it, but I did. I want to play my guitar again," he wailed. I held him and let him cry.

The stroke had robbed him of his greatest ability and his favorite pleasure, and the alcohol had erased what little control he had over his feelings of grief about the loss of his music. I just couldn't be mad at him anymore. I'd probably get drunk every once in a while, too, if I had suffered as much as he has.

Dear God, in your mercy, please restore the strength to Mike's arm, hand, and fingers. Let him enjoy playing his guitar again. In Jesus' name, AMEN.