Grace Through Pain

Dedicated to my mother

Massive apology to both my mom and my wife, who will probably cry while reading this.

There's a certain calm that grips you when you know your health is fleeting. When your body feels on fire and your mind clouded from the constant struggle you face. Acceptance is all you can respond with; an acknowledgement that pain and discomfort will forever be a part of you. Eventually, we learn to live with it, choosing to either let it define us or simply be a part of us. This calm is solid. Real. Fragile.

The calm sublimates easily, immediately turning to vapor, escaping your grip; like dry ice exposed to warm water. One day you feel fine, able to do everything you love. The next, you are unable to get out of bed, shattered by your body working against itself. You teeter on the tightrope between despair and rage, knowing that neither will help in the moment and both will lead to a mental and emotional spiral that leaves you hating yourself.

As someone who suffers from chronic pain, this cycle can be devastating. I wake up each morning and do quick triage to see what I can and cannot do that day. Some days I quickly get up, am able to go to the gym, and stay active for the entire day. Some days I am unable to straighten myself out and remain in the fetal position for hours. Regardless of what I am able to do, pain is constant; I tire quickly; I lose mobility.

I was in high school when my symptoms first manifested. That week I could barely walk, couldn't hold a pencil, and sitting in class was hell. I don't remember much from that week other than feeling broken, battered, and brutalized. What I vividly remember is the humiliation I felt at being unable to do anything. I also remember the bitterness I felt which ate away at me for months.

I was fortunate enough to have witnessed my mother go through this journey herself. I have no doubt it was challenging for her. I remember her grappling with her dreams of being a pharmacist crashing down; dreams that quickly became distant memories. I remember her and my father trying desperately to get a diagnosis, going to as many different clinics and specialists as it took. I remember my sister and I walking in on her and my dad weeping in their room and praying together. I remember the anger she felt towards God, that he would rip away her health, her career, her life.

My mother's diagnosis paved the way for me to get as early of a diagnosis as possible, streamlined the trial process for therapies, and has provided a general outline for what to expect as I age and symptoms progress. I have the burden of seeing my mother fight a silent war of attrition with her own immune system as it targets her connective tissue. I have the privilege of seeing my mother's example in relying on daily grace from God. I can only hope to mimic her in that regard.

There's a certain calm that shelters you when you accept that healing will not come. My mother’s prayers for years were to be healed. Many friends prayed for her healing. It never came. She had the unfortunate experience of being told her lack of faith is preventing her from being healed by those at church. That was not the case. A few years into her journey, she wrestled with God, begging for healing and offering what she could. The response? A simple no. The striving ceased; she was held in the arms of her Creator who wept with her.

I don't mean to imply that accepting this was easy for her. Certainly, there are times when she begs and pleads with God to take it away. Knowledge begets peace, and peace begets praise. This answer to prayers, even though it was not what she hoped, served to shift her perspective and look at the blessings she had received (and been able to give) in the pain. This didn't diminish the physical pain but rather diminished her in it so that God was magnified.

Similarly, a number of years ago, I was told I would not be healed. March of 2022 ended with me almost entirely unable to get out of bed for an entire week. The next month and a half would be torment, physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. I remember very little from that month. But I do remember blacking out at opera rehearsals from pain playing my bass. I remember thinking I'd need to drop out of my master's program. I remember mourning and pouring out my heart to God. I remember wrestling with Him.

What I very viscerally learned that month was that God pours out grace in abundance. Every day, I was granted enough energy and relief from pain to get done exactly what I needed to accomplish. Whether that was just getting up to eat and shower or making it through a full day of lab work before a 4-hour opera rehearsal, God carried me through. Much like the widow in 2 Kings 4 being given exactly how much oil she needed to pay her debts and survive, I was given precisely what was necessary.

During that time, my prayers were the same as my mother's had been: heal me. Take away this pain. Restore me. The answer I received was the same: no. I had suspected that it would be the answer since my symptoms manifested. What I never expected was what I felt after that revelation. Overwhelming, all-encompassing peace. In that moment, God was there, holding me. Comforting me. Reminding me of His faithfulness, telling me to trust His plans. I started that prayer seeking a Healer; what I found was a Father.

I'd love to say it's been easy sailing since then, but that's not how this works. I still teeter between despair and anger when I go through flare ups. I still hurt deep in my innermost self when I can't play music. Yet I find peace and comfort in the knowledge that God will give me exactly what I need to accomplish His will.

I've also come to realize that this has been the mode through which God has given me what I've asked for. I've historically struggled with pride and have often prayed for God to keep me humble. There is little more humbling than to know that you are entirely reliant on the grace of God to get out of bed in the morning. I've also prayed for patience, which has been answered by making me learn to be patient with myself just as much as I am patient with others. There are also many things I hadn't prayed for that have been answered in chronic pain. The most obvious example is being forced to rest consistently and intentionally, a habit I have always struggled with. Through my pain, God has brought about healing and provision in so many ways.

In my journey, which is really just beginning, I think it's become clear that there are two modes through which God uses pain to impart grace. First, God gives us grace for suffering. When we suffer, all we need is to remember that we are not alone and ask God for grace to get through it. Sometimes that looks like abundant giving that wipes out the suffering; sometimes that is just enough to get by without reducing the pain. In both, God is good, God is there, and God is maximally glorified. While I don't doubt miraculous healing of my mother and myself would bring glory to God, I believe that God's consistent provision and transformation of us serves to glorify Him more.

Second, God gives us grace through suffering. What I mean by that is: God uses our pain to grant us redemption from other (often more dangerous) things. For me, the sin of pride has been greatly diminished by my battle with chronic pain. It is obvious that I have only accomplished what I have through God's loving kindness. For my mother, her own journey has made her more compassionate, teaching her to give grace to others just as she has received it.

This is ultimately what makes the Christian worldview so beautiful to me. There is no promise that pain and suffering will cease in this world. There is no facade that all will be perfect in your life if you reach a certain point in your faith. There is no lie that all suffering is the result of your failings. There is simply an acknowledgement that pain will be there, that you will mourn, that you will anguish. This is not the end. The bold claim of Christianity is that God himself suffers with us and asks nothing of us except that we turn to Him and release our burden.

There is peace in the arms of the Father. There is healing in the hands of the King. Healing may not come through physical means but may be a careful process of renewal of your spirit, molding you into the tool and vessel God wills you to be. I cannot comfort people with the promise of healing, but I can comfort people with the blessed assurance that in our pain, we are seen, we are heard, and we are held. All we need do is accept the grace offered us and find comfort at the feet of the cross.

I would not be who I am today if I didn’t have my mother’s example to live by in how to be gracious, compassionate, and at peace while living with a chronic condition. I also would not be who I am today if my mother had not had to quit her career due to her disability, nor would my sister. Mom, it is because you were unable to work that you were able to be there for us in our own health crises. You are a shining example of what it means to trust fully in God in all things, and your legacy lives in your children and is far more good and beautiful than anything else you may have accomplished otherwise. Thank you for your example, your love, and your wisdom.