I skinned my finger and my ankle this week. The two incidents took place within 18 hours of each other. My finger I skinned as I was taking out the garbage Tuesday night. In my pride I thought I could handle carrying the recycling bins while wheeling the garbage bin behind me. Clumsily, I managed to get all of the containers to the top of the driveway. However, while I did not lose any garbage or recycling, to my disgust, as I stepped under the porch light by the front door, I realized that somewhere in-between I lost a flap of skin from my middle left finger which was bleeding profusely.

The incident with my ankle took place in my 8 a.m. Biology class. We were outside acting out the process of mitosis when I stepped in a pot hole hidden by a mound of grass and dead leaves. I felt the edges of the hole scrape hard against the bones of my foot and ankle, but when I pulled it out everything appeared to be fine, no scrapes and no bruise. However, walking back to class I was surprised to discover a stream of blood flowing from my ankle into my shoes.

It’s funny how certain parts of our bodies are more sensitive than others. They bleed more and take more time to heal. Ironically, these sensitive parts of the body are often some of the smallest and insignificant. You don't think much of your finger until you get a paper cut, or worse, a card stock cut, nor do you think a great deal about your knees or your ankle until you trip and fall forwards on the pavement rushing to class (no that has never happened to me), or you get your ankle smashed in a car door by your roommate’s little sister (also never happened to me).

We all get scrapes and bruises. It is a common experience. However, though scrapes and bruises may look similar on any given person, they are each unique to the bearer. Similarly, we all have those sensitive parts of our bodies, yet each person has different sensitivities. For me I have dry, irritable skin which makes the surface of my legs, hands, and feet more vulnerable. This explains the impressive amount of bleeding prompted by the wound on my finger.

I have been told that this would be a hard week for the family that I live with. It marks the anniversary of Jasmine’s death, a beloved daughter and sister of my housemates Deborah and Tabitha. I completely forgot until this afternoon when I came home for lunch and Tabitha was leaving to meet with her mother to commemorate her sister. In August, when I moved in, the ladies gave me a pamphlet with a picture of Jasmine on the front. It held artwork and writings about her life. When Deborah gave it to me she told me “you don’t get to meet Jasmine but here is a little bit about her.” Deb and Tabs are some of the most joyful people I know. Upon first impression, I would say there is nothing missing from their lives, however, today I could feel the loss echo through the silence of the house.

Human life is so fragile, so short we blossom and flourish as leaves on a tree and wither and perish. Over this short lifespan, humans undergo a paralyzing amount of pain and suffering. I think of Deborah and Tabitha, I think of my own family, my dad and my mom and their parents. I think of my friends and my roommate. I think of the children I work with at The Boys and Girls Club and my church. I think of the women I visit in jail. I have learned from these people that, just as we each scrape and bruise in our own unique way, each human’s sufferings are unique and sacred to them. We are each broken, but we all break differently. Which begs the question, what can I possibly do within my own humanity to bring hope to the dark place of sadness and loss in the lives of those around me? I have asked this question in prayer many times. This year I have been directed back to an old Sunday school verse.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life.” John 3:16

As is the nature of His teaching, God’s response to my question is not a direct answer but rather another question. "Grace, do you believe in the power and the love of Jesus Christ?"

These thoughts and questions clouded my mind as I went into work this afternoon. I was placed in the gym. I like working in the gym but today I lacked the energy to play tag or basketball, though I did my best to muster up all the enthusiasm I could find. I eventually wandered over to the bleachers to talk to a girl who had befriended me last year (which was my first year working at The Boys and Girls Club). When I asked her how she was doing she started telling me about some things going on in her life right now. She told me how badly she wanted to see her dad. She said she hoped she could see him this weekend, but she did not know. She went on to talk about the scary TV shows her mom watches and her "skinny but fat” yellow tabby cat. Then she shifted and started to talk about her dad again. She told me “I never told anyone this but I don’t know who I want to live with… My dad has a dog so I want to check on that…but I don’t know… I almost never see my dad.” As we were talking, she stopped for a moment to take off the band-aid she had wrapped around her left middle finger to reveal a small scrape just like mine.

“We’ve all been through a lot, Bryan, all of us. I know that some have been through more than others. But if we don’t expect more from each other, hope better for one another, and recover from the hurt we experience, we are surely doomed.” From "Just Mercy," by Bryan Stevenson