When Pain is the Tool

There's something going on in my life right now.  I'm not ready to blog about it specifically--not because I feel it's too private, or because I think the gritty truth of it will cause you to quickly maneuver to another blog in fear--but because I don't think I've met the completion of the lesson yet.  It's still raw, and I'm still learning.

But there is a part of it that is beginning to click inside this stubborn brain of mine.  I hate pain.  And discomfort.  And deprivation.  Basically anything that thwarts my agenda for a completely secure, comfortable, and prosperous life.  I run from it.  As soon as pain rears its miserable face, I pray for instant relief.

Relief.

This reaction is actually quite habitual for me.  Especially at the gym.  I hate working out.  And I'm not being histrionic here.  Hate is a very appropriate word choice here.  I hate to sweat, I hate to wear Spandex in a futile attempt to levy the tides of my jiggly thighs and butt, I hate the stark contrast of tremendously shiny and athletic people next to...me.  When my muscles begin to whine and complain about the voluntary torture I'm imposing on them, I gladly acquiesce and relieve their torment.  As soon as I feel a cramp coming on, I know that it's time to clock out for the day and stick another point to my "feel good" barometer.  I went to the gym.  I moved.  That's plenty enough for me.

But it's different when there's a trainer involved.  Not that I have much personal experience here, since I would never voluntarily seek out a maniacally enthusiastic and ripped human specimen to lord their greatness over my laziness, pushing me beyond the very limits of my fledgling strength.  How does that sound appealing to anyone?  I just don't get it.

But I digress.  

One time my mom and I decided to "get serious."  And those of you non-exercisers know that that means, "we need to up the ante from our strolls around the neighborhood where the only thing that gets exercised is our tongues."  And we knew that neither of us have the unction to push the other into actual moments of sweatiness and raised heart rate.  So we enrolled in a class at the local gym.  With a trainer.

Oh, boy.

We were in a class of about 40 women and my mom, being the dutiful, teacher-pleasing woman that she is, just had to be at the FRONT of all of them.  No hiding in the back row laboring in half-exertions to no one's better knowledge.  No, we had to be smack dab in the front, our butts jiggling on display and our missteps broadcasting us as the "newbies."  Not just to the group, but to exercise in general.

And boy did she push us.  My only motivation to participate wholeheartedly was the fact that my over-fifty-year-old mother was giving it all she had.  My competitive nature trumped my aching desire to drop out and get back to my evening loyalty to the couch.

And, boy, did my muscles hate me.  They revolted, whined, and mutinied my basic human right to be able to walk, sit, and stand up without incredible pain and cries of woe.  But each time I went, it got easier and easier.  My muscles fell in line.  I can't say I ever enjoyed it.  But I definitely learned how to thrive in the midst of it.

And that's my point here.

We have got to stop resisting pain.  We need to become more opportunistic as Christians.  When confronted with a difficult person or situation, we need to train our minds to immediately pause and say, "God is presenting me with an opportunity to practice all of the truths I've been learning about Him lately."

God is the Trainer and Pain is the tool.  I'd even say it's His primary tool.  Why?  Because it's memorable.  We don't forget pain and discomfort.  It sears truth, or less-than-noble attitudes, into the deepest parts of who we are.  What gets seared into us depends on our response.

Just going through a painful situation does not mean you've learned anything from it.  When we mope, complain, seek relief at every turn, allow resentment to take root, we miss the opportunity to build spiritual muscle.  To strengthen our faith.  To become more resistant to the Flesh and the unseen principalities of this world.

So I'm hurting right now.  God is withholding something from me that I greatly desire.  And it's wretched.  The temptation to give in to my anxiety, to throw an extravagant pity party, and to resent those from whom this gift is not withheld is before me on a daily basis.  I can choose to grasp onto my pain and give in...and waste an opportunity in the spiritual gym of life.

Or, I can do what David did.  Say, "God, I trust you."

And I'm not saying to gloss over what you're feeling.  In fact, in Psalm 143, David quite honestly said, 

Therefore my spirit is overwhelmed within me;
My heart is appalled within me. 

Overwhelmed.  Appalled.  It's okay to feel those things when we're going through something tough.  We don't have to conform to some prescribed Christian mold of grieving and hurting.  It's okay to hurt.  To hurt really bad and not be "okay" with it.

But we can reach beyond that reality and say,

Let me hear Your lovingkindness in the morning;
For I trust in You;
Teach me the way in which I should walk;
For to You I lift up my soul.  

Trust.  The way to build spiritual muscle, to "strengthen the inner man" (Ephesians 3:16) is to say to God, "This hurts.  Really bad.  But I still trust You.  You are still the refuge I choose."  And when we do that, we'll lose that lost feeling that often accompanies pain.  When our plans for life are interrupted, it's easy to feel a "What do I do now?" kind of hopelessness.  But God has promised to "teach [us] the way in which [we] should walk" in the new reality He has placed before us.  And trust is what precedes His guidance.

I'm still hurting.  My body revolts as much, if not more, to spiritual exercise as it does to physical.  But I'm resolved to grab the opportunity God has placed before me to grow, to be strengthened, to prove more and more to myself and the world that He is stronger than anything I'll ever face.

I will not knock this tool out of His Hand.