There was a time my pain was a dark, cold rock in the center of my chest. It made my breathing shallow and kept me awake in the middle of the night. It was with me every day and I struggled under the weight of it. I hated it. I wished and waited for the day I could drop this pain and I wouldn’t feel compelled to carry it any longer. But it wouldn’t go away.
The pain of the loss of a child. The pain of childhood trauma. The pain of infertility or infidelity or bankruptcy or divorce. The pain of a past you wish wasn’t yours. The pain of a loss of a parent or spouse. The pain of a physical ailment that changes what you thought your life would look like. No matter what pain you carry, it has become part of you. Part of your story.
Over the years that pain has begun to change forms. The sharp edges have worn down through the hours spent talking with people who understand. It has gone from dark to clear and bright as I’ve created new memories that don’t replace the painful ones, but live peacefully alongside them. It’s become less of a weight to carry as I see how carrying this pain has changed me for the better. I have become more empathetic, more patient, more present because pain has given me a new perspective.
The pain that once felt like a rock in the center of my chest now feels like a diamond. But not everybody sees it this way.
I’m not ashamed of the pain I’ve been through. I can see how it has helped make me the person I needed to be. To truly know me, you have to know my pain. So when I feel most safe, when I feel ready, I may take my pain out. Carefully, cautiously, I may show it to you, not knowing how you’ll respond. I struggle to talk about it, to explain how this rock became a diamond. I want you to see it for what it is— a horrible hurt that has become a precious part of my story.
Some people aren’t ready to see the depth of the pain. They only see the hard parts and they want to make it better. They tell me the pain wasn’t really that bad. They want to help find a silver lining. They point me to the positives and tell me everything happens for a reason and God wouldn’t give me more than I can handle. I hear their words and I know they aren’t ready to see the depths of my pain. They don’t know how to validate what it was in ways that feel understanding. They don’t know that when they imply God thought I could “handle” this, they imply that he orchestrated and approved of my pain because he believed I was the kind of person designed for suffering. That’s not how I see my good and loving God. I see him grieving the pain I’ve walked through and redeeming it— slowly, patiently, faithfully redeeming it.
Some people aren’t ready to see the sweetness that came from the pain. The look fully at the hard-won beauty I’m showing them and they get angry. It’s a beautiful response from a heart of justice, but it doesn’t acknowledge the peace I’ve worked so hard to find. I’ve found forgiveness and I’ve moved past the initial sting of the pain. Or maybe they recoil in horror when I show them my pain. It’s just too painful to believe we live in a world where this could happen. My pain is unspeakable. But not speaking about it has never made it better. It’s been speaking the words, looking full in the face of the grief that’s turned it from an unbearable weight into a source of pride as I’ve survived what I thought would do me in.
And then there are those who see my pain and they understand the beauty. They can feel the depths of my sadness and understand how strong I am and how strong God is because I have come out better for the suffering. They can hold it all in tension— the joy and the sorrow of having to walk through situations no one ever wants to walk through. They can ask questions, they can sit in silence, they can honor what I’ve been through.
My pain is precious. There was a time I was scared of it, I dreaded it and I just wanted it to go away. But it has become part of me and to love me is to know my pain and not be afraid of it. When I show it to you, it is because I trust you. It is because I need to know you want to know all of me. My pain isn’t something I’m trying to get over or past, it’s just part of a story of redemption that I’m proud to call my own.
2 Comments
Leave a reply →