After it was sewn back on, they did a proper job of it, and now

The words of Ronnie James Dio resound like a tale carved into the stone tablets of time. In the utterance, “After it was sewn back on, they did a proper job of it, and now it's OK. It looks a little distorted, and the nail has not grown fully back yet, but I'm thankful I still have my thumb, and I can still do my horn sign,” we hear more than the tale of an injury healed. We hear the spirit of endurance, of gratitude, and of the unyielding flame of identity. Though the flesh be torn and reshaped, the soul that gives meaning to the flesh remains. The thumb, though scarred, is not lost; and through it, the horn sign, that ancient gesture of defiance and kinship among the faithful of heavy metal, endures unbroken.

In this quote lies the eternal teaching: that even when life rends us asunder and leaves us distorted, we are not robbed of our essence. A hand may lose its perfection, a nail may fail to grow, yet the gesture of the spirit still rises. So it has ever been: the body may falter, but the will that inhabits it remains sovereign. Just as blacksmiths of old hammered bent iron into new shapes, so must men and women accept the dents upon their lives as part of their forging.

Consider the story of Epictetus, the Stoic philosopher born a slave, who suffered a cruel injury that left him lame for life. His master twisted his leg until it snapped, and Epictetus, without bitterness, declared that it was broken—yet not his spirit. Like Dio, he might have said: the body is marred, but the sign of the soul remains. The distortion of his form became not a curse, but a vessel of teaching, for he showed that freedom and strength are not gifts of the body, but of the heart and mind.

Dio’s words also call upon us to remember the symbol of the horns—a gesture born in cultures long before heavy metal, signifying protection, defiance, and power. To Dio, it became his seal, his bond with his people, a gesture that proclaimed unity and rebellion against despair. When he declares, “I can still do my horn sign,” it is not merely the survival of a movement of the hand. It is the survival of identity, faith, and legacy. It is the declaration that nothing—not even injury—can sever him from who he is, nor from the tribe that looks to him.

This truth finds echo in the saga of warriors who return from battle scarred. The Roman soldier who came back with one eye still lifted his sword; the samurai who lost fingers still wielded the brush with greater elegance than before. History is rich with men and women who bore wounds as crowns, not shackles. Their scars told the story of survival, of resilience, and of the unbreakable flame that outlives the breaking of flesh.

From this quote, dear listener, take the lesson of gratitude and defiance. Do not lament the scars upon your journey. Instead, honor them as marks of endurance. Give thanks for what remains, and wield it with pride. If your voice is cracked, sing anyway. If your step is slowed, walk with dignity still. If your hand is bent, raise it high, and let it proclaim your sign to the world.

Practically, this teaching calls you to act thus: each day, when confronted with what is broken in you—whether in body, fortune, or spirit—choose to name what yet endures. Write it down. Speak it aloud. Say: “Though I am marred, I am not ended.” And then use what remains as your weapon, your gift, your sign. In so doing, you transform distortion into strength, weakness into testimony, and survival into a beacon.

So let the words of Ronnie James Dio be etched upon your soul: the thumb may be twisted, the nail may not return, but the horns will rise. And as long as you can still raise your sign, you remain unbroken, eternal, and triumphant in spirit.