I'm grateful for my brokenness. I'm grateful for my humility.

The confession of James McGreevey resounds with the trembling strength of one who has walked through fire: “I’m grateful for my brokenness. I’m grateful for my humility.” These words, though born of personal pain, carry the fragrance of ancient wisdom. For in every age, sages and prophets have declared that suffering, when embraced with openness, does not destroy the soul but reshapes it. Brokenness humbles, and humility clears the eyes to see truth, stripping away illusions of pride and false strength. Gratitude for such things may seem strange, yet it is the deepest kind of gratitude: thanksgiving for the wounds that became teachers.

Brokenness is not weakness—it is the shattering of illusions. It is the moment when man realizes he is not invincible, not flawless, not self-sufficient. In that breaking, the heart becomes tender, the ears open to wisdom long ignored. Many flee from this season, but McGreevey speaks of embracing it. To say, “I am grateful for my brokenness,” is to acknowledge that what once seemed ruin was in truth a foundation for new life. For only what is broken can be remade, and only what is humbled can be lifted higher.

History offers us the example of King David of Israel. He was a man of triumphs and failures, of victory in battle yet also of grievous sin. When confronted with his faults, his heart was broken, and in his psalms he cried, “A broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.” His brokenness led him to humility, and his humility to wisdom that outlived his reign. It was not his crown nor his victories that made him remembered, but the songs born of a humbled heart. From his downfall rose the deepest of prayers, which have comforted millions through centuries.

So too, in the annals of more recent history, consider Nelson Mandela. For 27 years he was imprisoned, his power stripped, his life seemingly shattered. Yet from the cell of his brokenness, he discovered the strength of humility, patience, and forgiveness. When freedom at last came, he did not rise in bitterness but in grace, uniting a divided nation. His greatness was not in avoiding brokenness, but in being remade by it into something far stronger. Like McGreevey, Mandela showed that to be grateful for humility is to be grateful for the path that leads from despair to transformation.

Humility itself is the crown of the broken. It is the wisdom of knowing that all is gift, that life is fragile, that power and pride are fleeting shadows. To be grateful for humility is to rejoice not in what exalts us, but in what grounds us, what roots us to truth. A proud man may win battles, but only the humble can win hearts. A proud man may build monuments, but only the humble can build peace.

The lesson we inherit from these words is luminous: do not curse your brokenness, for it may be the very place where your soul learns to see. Do not despise your humility, for it is the soil where true greatness grows. Life will break every person at some point—through loss, through failure, through pain. The question is not whether we shall be broken, but whether we shall be grateful for what the breaking teaches us.

Practically, let us choose a path of reflection. When hardship comes, instead of asking “Why me?” let us ask, “What am I being taught?” In seasons of weakness, let us practice gratitude, naming aloud the lessons hidden in the struggle. Let us honor those who walk with us in our brokenness, for they are instruments of grace. Above all, let us practice humility—not seeking to be more than we are, nor less, but living truthfully, gratefully, and openly.

Thus, McGreevey’s words become a torch for all generations: Be grateful, even for your brokenness. Be grateful, especially for your humility. For these are not curses, but gifts that strip away the false and reveal the eternal. And from such gratitude rises a life not of shallow strength, but of deep and enduring wisdom.