Late at night on April 1 of this year, I woke up in the hospital with a bloodied face and a missing front tooth. I could see the bone in my foot. I do not remember what happened. Everything hurt except the parts of my body that I could not feel. This time in my life was a blur; maybe this was because of the drugs, maybe the concussion. My parents told me that I thought I hurt someone, that I had gotten into big trouble and that I kept asking the same questions over and over again. 

Thankfully, no others were harmed, I learned. I was casually riding an ATV, hit a bump and flipped, impaling my foot and breaking several of its bones along with my left hand, pelvis and lower back. I had two surgeries, was in a wheelchair for two months and used crutches for another month and a half, and then I had to relearn how to walk.  

It was the most pain I had ever felt physically, but more painful than that, I had to learn how to suffer. 

My college experience has, on paper, been far from ideal. I got dropped from the rush process … twice. I had broken the same foot a few months earlier, and I also face-planted on my bike in front of the union and a large audience of students.  

While I love the things I am involved with — including writing for “The Daily Mississippian” — no line would immediately catch any resumé reader’s eye. 

You can imagine my reaction back home, unable to sit up, get dressed or bathe myself without help, when well-meaning people would tell me that I was lucky, that God was merciful towards me. If that was luck or God’s mercy, I did not want any part of it. My friends were the lucky ones, I thought. They were able-bodied frat guys with no noticeable failures and stacked resumés. 

I did not deserve my fate. I do not drink or cuss. I try to be nice. I go to church on Sundays. The people who get everything they want, who have never experienced true disappointment or hardship, are the people who deserved to be in the wheelchair, not me. Right? 

I have done my time, I have learned my lesson, and now it is someone else’s turn to suffer. My mindset boiled down to one question: Why me? 

Still, I haven’t found a complete answer to that question. But, over time, this is what I have come to know to be true. The rain falls on the just and the unjust alike. I deserve much worse than a few broken bones; I deserve hell. Romans 6:23 says that “the wages of sin is death.” God is sovereign; He is not a God of chance. All things work together for the good of those who love him and are called according to his purpose. This was for my good and God’s glory, and for that reason, I can rejoice in my sufferings. 

I may never be able to play another family basketball game, play tag with my future kids or run to my future wife, but I am content. I am walking and breathing. If that is not mercy, I am not sure what is. My helmet was tight and secure for a reason, I landed the way I did for a reason, and I am living for a reason. Every step, every breath is a blessing. 

I also cannot write this article without thanking the people who showed up for me when I needed them most: Chancellor Glenn Boyce, my professors and the rest of the Ole Miss faculty, who helped me finish my work, were gracious towards me and who helped me transition back this fall. I also appreciate my friends, who called, texted and prayed for me and especially my parents and family, who took care of me. 

I am not sure what is next; I do not know the future. But I look back at my college experience so far and would not change a single thing. My failures have made me better, and they have revealed my purpose and my Creator to me. Do not pity me; pity the ones who are made shallow and empty by endless success and high stature. They are unlucky. 

Cass Rutledge is a junior majoring in public policy leadership from Madison, Miss.