The Mississippi sun beat through the haze of humidity. The heady aroma of horses permeated the air, occupying all available space. Not nearly enough of a breeze wafted through the poplars bringing eddies of dust. The horses of our motley cavalry snorted and patted the ground. With all the bravado and roughness of a worn cattle hand, a young man on a horse rasped, “Hope you boys ate your Wheaties today.”

That was Keith, not even twenty years of age, the survivor of over a dozen surgeries to improve his lot. Still, on most days he remained locked into a wheelchair, generally unable to even maneuver it himself. But Thursday afternoons, along with several others, he got to escape that and be a cowboy for a little while. And oh how that grin would cut across his young face.

I helped him ride, pacing alongside to steady and, worst come to worst, act as a cushion to break his fall should he take a tumble. And for his part, Keith showed me the potential strength and resilience of the developing psyche.