The Gift of Pain

Pain is an interesting thing. It can be complex and difficult to describe. 

Is it dull or sharp? Does it feel like a muscle or a bone? On a scale of 1 to 10, what is it? 

When pain is bad, I’ve never really known how to answer these questions. “Um… it just hurts and I want it to stop.” There is no way around it. And I don’t know how to describe it and sometimes there aren’t words and… it just hurts.

I get migraines. Debilitating ones where my vision starts swirling and I throw up and I literally cannot function. I have to curl into a ball in a dark room and pray that my kids can look out for each other and I won’t be required to move. They don’t come often, but when they do, it’s a 10. 

Sometimes pain is sharp and stabbing, sometimes its dull and radiating. But still, its pain. And pain in all its forms, just hurts.

We camped in Big Sur a few weeks ago. It is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. Breathtaking and majestic. But it also brings about a multitude of emotions for me.

A few months after Mason died we were gifted with a 10 day motorhome trip through California (in honor of Mason and his obsession with motorhomes.) One of our stops was Big Sur. It was a beautiful gift to our family.

But also, there was a rawness about that first family adventure without Mason. The void of my little 6 year old was too much to bear. So while the trip was rich in many ways, watching my family still be able to laugh together, still make memories together… it was also incredibly hard. It was this dream trip Mason had always wanted to take… in a motorhome! And it was just so unbalanced and unfair that he wasn’t there. And he’d never be there. And this was the beginning of a whole new chapter of family trips that would never be complete. The pain was oppressive. And suffocating. And deep in ways that don’t have words.

So as I revisited Big Sur for the first time since that trip, I took in the sites and remembered that amazing trip and all the rich times with my family… watching the waterfall that emptied into the ocean and remembering my kids playing in the river for hours and sitting around the campfire.

But also, as I stood amidst the amazing redwoods that meet the coastline, my heart was transported back. And as a trigger of memories, that beauty assaulted me with that fresh pain again… it was searing and overwhelming. Like a knife stabbing in to my heart and I just wanted to scream and rip it out. It was the kind of pain I was sure I couldn’t survive.

Now, years later, the pain is different. The knife is still there, causing a dull, constant pain. And while I still have days I don’t think I’ll survive it, I have learned how to live with it. Learned to accept that it is always there, a dull ache of loss and a deep sadness of what will never be. 

I still don’t know how to describe it. It just hurts. A lot. But I have learned to see it as more than just a merciless assault. I’ve seen that it’s a tool. Something to be used for growth and maturity and perspective. And most importantly, for faith.

“… you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith- more precious than gold that perishes thought it is tested by fire- may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ.” 1 Peter 1:6,7

I think what we do with pain can be very defining. The deep wound can allow bitterness and despair and anger to creep in, to permeate the deepest cells of our heart and radiate out to all parts of body and mind. I think it’s a rather natural effect of a severe stab wound. 

Or, when that pain is piercing, we can make a difficult decision. One that requires much focused intention in a time where clear focus seems nearly impossible. (Because who can really think well under severe pain?)

We can allow a sort of salve to surround our wound. It won’t fix it and it definitely can’t make it go away, but it can start to heal it. Make it less severe. Make it easier to live with. 

That salve is Truth. It’s a healing ointment beyond anything this world can offer. And it transforms pain into a tool. 

So what does that pain do for me now? How has it been a tool for me?

It reminds me life is sacred. It points me over and over again to eternity and away from the temporary and shallow. It also serves as a reminder that I have walked through the darkest hell imaginable but I didn’t do it alone. 

I sometimes have this picture that Jesus wrapped his arms around me in that hospital room and when that knife stabbed through my heart, it went through him first. He absorbed the intensity of it. He protected me from the terror encircling me. And he has never left me alone as the pain continues to radiate. 

Whether the pain is fresh and searing and drowning out all the senses, or dull and aching, an old wound that will never heal this side of eternity, it’s still a tool. 

In a weird way, I’ve come to see my pain as a gift. Not one I would ever ask for and one I would definitely return if I could. But it has caused beauty to grow out of ashes. It has forever changed me.

Because of pain, my faith has deepened. It has expanded to areas I never realized were lacking. It has penetrated parts of my heart I never had to explore before. It has permeated the depths of my soul and filled the voids I wasn’t even aware of. It has been strengthened and solidified in the hottest fire I can imagine. 

And the best gift I have received from pain is the vividness of eternity. I long for heaven with every part of my soul. Pain has directed me to a deeper understanding of what Hebrews 11 says, “… but as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared for them a city.”

So while my pain changes as the years without Mason pass slowly by but the intensity remains immeasurable, I pray it never loses its effectiveness in my life, daily refreshing my desire for the better country. A heavenly one. Pain-free and hope-filled. Abounding in laughter and joy. And reuniting with the one I long to hold tightly again.