Blessed are the Injured.

I’m a loser. You’re a loser too. Just like the show, we are the biggest losers. It was good that I lost. That I lose. That I experienced a take-away.  Or as Paul once penned, “It was good that I was afflicted.”When the body is injured, it goes into rehabilitation mode. Dead tissue, tumors, and lesions are removed. The body was in danger, and with help, its organic flow is to restore function. So metamorphic, our body’s  inclination is to heal and not remain wounded. Often, the restoration strengthens the bones and fortifies the heart. With therapy, and physiological support, the toxins dissolve and the body gains another chance to live out its role.Not without gut-wrenching, go into fetal position, wince and moan, climbing up from the treacherous, emotional vomit that stains the soul and rips the spirit, unfortunately.We are all injured. Our injuries vary. Physical. Emotional. Psychological. Spiritual.Our injuries often go undetected as the cars and the trains bustle by. As the barista pours our hot cup, as the crossing guard waves her red stop sign and the students walk across, injuries are spread out across the human condition.Deep within, there’s an injury. Someone left. Something broke you. Someone passed. Deficits. Betrayal. Divorce. Death. Loss. Delayed Desires. Sickness. The dice of life has rolled its hand, what did you get?Nevertheless, blessed are the injured, for they will see new beginnings. New hope. Vitality. Injuries breed stories that only we can tell. And damn it, may it be balm to someone else.Bravery must emerge with a declaration that this is my story and I have to stick with it.Fist bump, fellow loser. It’s good that we lost. Catch your breath, wipe the salty liquid drops that have glided down the slopes of your experience and injury’s skin.We either accept it or it kills us-it’s our choice. I know it hurts my friend, I know it leaks of anguish. Trust me, I lose my breath often, suddenly and without warning. I’m driving, bathing my daughter, walking to my car...my eyes swell into a blurry tear bath as my head starts to shake in disbelief. Wiping quickly, I rush myself to recover. Some days are better than others.With my imaginary cane, I limp on.Yet, the buck must stop at the Maker’s desk. The true Commander and Chief must decide the extent of our injuries. Take a bow, you’re a bit of a bad ass if you were called to walk with that kinda loss.And so we walk. With a bit of a limp. But we walk.Blessed are the injured.