Bone: (n) pieces of hard, whitish tissue making up the skeleton
It was a source of amazement and confusion to me.
When my son was struck down by a hit-and-run driver, he suffered a compound fracture of his femur–the largest bone in the body.
It was ugly.
But as tragic as that may seem, it wasn’t nearly as devastating as the brain injury he suffered–a trauma that left him unable to communicate, living in a vegetative state.
Sometimes I would come into his room and stare at his leg. Because over the weeks of tragedy and travail, that bone healed.
It had no reason to.
It wasn’t attached anymore to a leg that was going to think of somewhere to go and then move quickly in that direction.
It wasn’t part of a body that was functioning with any sense of reason.
But it healed–not completely straight, but it joined together.
It left me with feelings of praise, anger, frustration and awe.
How fearfully and wonderfully we are made, said a great songwriter.
Wonderfully in the sense that bones that break can be set to heal.
But fearfully because in a moment of madness, all our sensibilities … can be smashed.
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PoHymn: A Rustling in the Stagnant