The Poetry of Pain

You wake up in the morning and it's there. It follows you throughout your day, a part of you that doesn't feel like you, but yet you can't shake. It embarrasses you, but you can't hide it. It lives up to its name exactly - chronic illness.

Pain wears you down. It makes you tired when you've had plenty of sleep. It blunts your intellect and makes you slow. Sometimes, it's like walking through a fog. You want people to understand why its so hard for you to get to work on time, why you don't eat everything on your plate, why your clothes never seem to fit quite right. When someone tells you how jealous they are that you can so easily lose weight your mind darts back to dragging out of bed that morning, dressing and doing your hair in between fits of sickness, of staring at your expensive dinner at a restaurant and knowing that your body just won't let you eat it, no matter how offended your host might be.

I sat down to write this post almost a month ago, but I couldn't do it. In my own heart I was still searching for answers. I was struggling hard, and I felt like I was getting nowhere. I needed something to grasp hold of to motivate me and push me forward. A light in the fog.

I began to sink into discouragement. I dealt with bad flare-ups before without so much emotional kicking and screaming, but for some reason this round was hitting me hard and I was not able to find peace in the midst of it.

Frustrated and discouraged, I described my inner struggle to my husband. He expressed sympathy and understanding, and then he gave me what I was searching for. An astonishingly simple, yet so easily overlooked truth.

"When you're struggling," he said, "meditate on the cross. Because that is how much God loves you."
It was like fingers of sunlight reaching through the clouds. It was the shout of joy and hope when the sun rises. It was the crocus pushing its head through the snow.
When you're tempted to despair, just think about the pain Jesus endured for you. Think of the overwhelming, never ending, sacrificial, death embracing, inescapable love that has chosen your pain for you. A love like that would never give you something that wasn't best for you. That wasn't for your benefit. Anticipate good. Because if you are adopted into the family of God, you are safe, and only good will come to you.

But can pain be good? Can suffering be good?

As I read through Luke recently, I came upon the familiar passage of the beatitudes. The words, almost memorized, stood out to me in their striking contrast:

"Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.

Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you shall be satisfied.

Blessed are you who weep now, for you shall laugh.

 Blessed are you when people hate you and when they exclude you and revile you and spurn your name as evil, on account of the Son of Man!  Rejoice in that day, and leap for joy, for behold, your reward is great in heaven; for so their fathers did to the prophets."

Perhaps my idea of what blessed looks and feels like and God's idea of what blessed looks and feels like aren't always the same. Perhaps the reason I struggle, and grapple, and kick against the pricks is because I think that, because I don't feel the way I want to feel, I am not blessed. Christian, you are always blessed. As the Psalmist says in his effortless, beautiful verse, "Return, oh my soul, to your rest, for the Lord has dealt bountifully with you."

Always. The Lord has always, is always, dealing bountifully with you. You must recognize the poetry in your pain, the bitter sweet rhythm of a tender Father gathering up his child in his  arms and carrying him through the rough places. A careful potter molding a piece of clay into a beautiful and useful work of art. A shepherd guiding his sheep through dark canyons, staff in hand. Who can be nearer to God than those who must lean on him for strength, daily? Who can know God so well as those who call out to him for comfort, and get comfort? Who can understand the workings of God's gentle hand better than those who hold it? There's a sweetness, a nearness, a special relationship available to sufferers. Recognize the blessedness and you will begin to see that the poetry is a lullaby.