Blessed are those who have failed.
Who set out to do glorious, inconsequential things
Race across Everest, Antarctica,
higher, faster, stronger, first
Break records, set new ones, break those too.
Whose bright promise was broadly praised
And they believed their press.
Who have schemed and striven and intrigued,
Only to find themselves with empty hands
Wrestling though the night with the Mysterious One
Whose face they cannot see,
Who will not share his name,
Refusing to let him go unless he blesses them.
And then he does.
And this is the blessing:
He wrenched the tendon of the hip
So that, ever after, we walk with a limp.
Ah, what kind of blessing is this?
You have disabled me.
I will never run again.
Climbs will exhaust me.
I will have to leave my shepherding to others.
And this was the blessing:
You slowed me down.
I can no longer walk miles
I have to be deliberate about where I walk.
I tire easily.
I have to choose my projects prayerfully.
I will forever
limp through life:
And that is my blessing!!
Limping, slow enough to see beauty.
Walking at a child’s pace,
slow enough to listen.
No more running, no more sprinting
But limping at a slow, measured pace,
My routes meditated over, considered carefully.
I will now always need to ask for help
From the Nameless Great One
Who crippled me
because I have to!
I cannot manage without it.
My limp sets me free
From having to climb, scale, ascend
I have time for people.
To look at them, to see, to listen.
Delivered from running,
from the possibility of ever running,
I will now limp though
an examined, reflective, contemplative life,
keeping pace with the slowest of these, the youngest of these,
the Josephs, the Benjamins,
learning, at last, to love.