Those who live with the stripes and curlicues of fatigue share intimacy with a world that shimmers like the desert sun, that yawns in the middle of another yawn, that hankers with empty bowls. Cracks interface all surfaces: nothing holds anything—spillage seeps into arroyos. Uselessness smells with stacks of barren projects. Aimlessness kicks into piles of stones scattering them like winter’s refuse.

Yet, in the wake of such fatigue, the paradox of grace welcomes that which is different and from which new learning abounds. No longer does busyness choke-hold us, plunge us even deeper into fatigue, with mindless dependence upon pills until the next “Cocktail.”

There is a way out and the beleaguered know who to contact for the critical release and return to normalcy.

But should that fatigue deepen to the physical death of the body, all the better—the dawning of eternal life ensues. Such is the hoped-for ultimate outcome of my fatigue.