An unexpected trip yesterday evening (on the doorstep of a friend I’d gone to visit) afforded me the opportunity to sprawl in his hallway and engage briefly with the spokes of his bicycle.
Several fingers bled a little, but there was no chance of my qualifying as a stigmatic.
There’s an old saying: “Pride goes before a fall,” and I briefly wondered whether I had been guilty of some especially prideful thought, word, or deed. But nothing came to mind.
The experience was not something I care to repeat.
It had been many years (if not decades) since I took a tumble – for which I am heartily thankful – but, following a life-threatening accident at eleven years of age, I had been prone to tripping and falling, time and again, as if my body were caught in some psychic repeat cycle.
For years, I harboured deep resentment that the angels of God had allowed me to trip and fall – I did, after all, lose a lot of blood. But eventually it occurred to me that I had not been alone, and I had not bled to death.
Life goes on. And I give thanks.