I realized this is what God has dealt me, and I should be

In the words of Richard Pryor, “I realized this is what God has dealt me, and I should be thankful considering all that's happened to me in my life, but MS caused the movies to stop – stop dead – and I miss it.” Here we hear the voice of a man who was both a warrior of laughter and a bearer of pain. His words carry the weight of struggle, resignation, and gratitude all bound together in one breath. They echo the eternal truth: that even the mightiest among us are bound by fate’s hand, and that the gifts of life often walk side by side with its burdens.

This utterance speaks of acceptance, for Pryor does not curse the heavens for his illness. Instead, he recognizes it as his portion, his lot in life. In this he resembles the ancients who, upon meeting suffering, did not merely resist it but sought meaning within it. Yet, beneath the cloak of acceptance lies the sorrow of an artist torn from his craft, a man who once blazed across the stage and screen, only to be halted by the unyielding grip of multiple sclerosis. He admits that he misses the movies—the vessel of his genius—as one misses the heartbeat of a lover who has gone silent.

The origin of this reflection lies not in bitterness but in wisdom forged through fire. Richard Pryor’s life was filled with trials: from a childhood marked by hardship to battles with addiction, from public controversies to private breakdowns. Yet, through each, he wielded comedy as his weapon, truth as his shield. Thus, when fate struck him with illness, his words were not the cries of despair but the teaching of endurance: to be grateful even when destiny denies you the stage you once commanded.

Consider the tale of Helen Keller, blind and deaf from childhood. The world had denied her sight and sound, but with the guidance of Anne Sullivan, she found language, purpose, and a voice that reached millions. Like Pryor, Keller’s story reminds us that life’s greatest obstacles often forge the deepest wells of wisdom. Both reveal that the human spirit, though scarred, may shine with a brilliance that no illness or tragedy can extinguish.

Yet Pryor’s lament holds another lesson: it is not wrong to grieve what has been lost. Too often, men are taught to bury sorrow under a false mask of strength. Pryor, by confessing that he missed the movies, showed that grief and gratitude can walk together. The ancient Stoics taught acceptance of what lies beyond control, yet even they allowed for the mourning of what was once cherished. In this union of sorrow and thanks lies the true nobility of the human heart.

What then shall we learn from Pryor’s words? That life will deal each of us a hand not of our choosing. Some will hold cards of triumph, others of hardship, most a mixture of both. Our task is not to demand different cards, but to play with courage, with gratitude, and with honesty. When fate strips us of one path, we must seek another, and when it denies us the tools we once wielded, we must discover new ones.

To live this teaching, practice daily gratitude—not only for the blessings that remain but even for the trials that teach. Speak openly of your losses, for in speaking them you heal, and in healing you give permission for others to do the same. And most of all, pursue what remains possible: if your art is silenced in one form, find another voice; if your body weakens, let your spirit grow stronger. In this way, you honor both your struggle and your gift.

Thus, Richard Pryor’s lament becomes more than a personal confession. It becomes a torch for future generations, a reminder that though illness may halt the body, though tragedy may end a chapter, the soul is never silenced if it chooses gratitude over despair, and courage over resignation. For in the end, the movies may stop, but the story of the soul continues, burning bright in the memory of all who learn from it.