The world conditioned me - and probably you too - from a very young age to see pain as a negative thing. Any type of pain, be it caused by fear, sorrow, loneliness, etc. etc. Every single one of these hurts. Every single one of these is invaluable. In fact, when considered rightly, pain loses its power to hurt. It can transform us. - if we let it.
I have learned from childhood to end pain through motrin if it is physical, distraction or sleep if it is emotional. Sometimes, I try to numb it with food (“eat my feelings”); sometimes, I choose to ignore it. Like pretending it’s not there will change the way things are.
I see pain as a monster that feeds off the worst in me. My perception of pain triggers my response, which is usually defensive. I have to protect myself from the monster. I have to fight it with everything I am.
But what if I have it all wrong?
A week or so ago I was praying my rosary, meditating on the first sorrowful mystery, the Agony in the Garden. How many times have I heard that story, read that story, told that story to children as I was teaching them. How many times have I meditated upon it while praying my rosary? Hundreds, if not thousands of times.
Every time I meditate on it, I feel sorrow and empathy for Jesus. My heart bleeds for Him. Here He is on the worst night of His entire life and all He wants is to have His closest companions with Him. And they say they want to be with Him too, they even come to the garden with Him!!! But what then? They fall asleep. Not once, but multiple times, the very people Jesus had counted on for comfort pass out and leave Him alone with His fears. I’m sure they never forgave themselves for it after the fact. (I wouldn’t have.)
See here though. Jesus was in pain. Distressed. Distraught. He fell on His knees before God the Father and begged that this cup be taken from Him.
As much as I would like to believe I am better than the Apostles, could I have entered into that with Him? Could I have stayed awake and prayed? Could I have born offering Him nothing but the cold comfort of my presence so He wouldn’t be alone?
Sometimes, the pain of those we love is more unbearable even than our own.
I judged the Apostles for falling asleep. I wouldn’t have done that is an easy thing to say, centuries later, when I know how the whole story pans out. There is a catch.
I do do that.
You see, I have come to the horrible realization that pain is not a monster. I’ve had it wrong for years. I’ve believed what I heard through hearsay. That kidney stones are the worst. That heartbreak is unbearable. That being unable to feel God’s presence during periods of spiritual darkness is the worst possible thing imaginable. What do all these things (that I have personally experienced) have in common? They highlight some of the innumerable ways a human being can feel pain.
But what if pain is something more? What if it isn’t a monster? What if pain is actually, well, a hand reaching out to me in invitation? What if pain isn’t ugly but transformatively beautiful? What if pain is something to be sought, or at least endured, rather than avoided? What if it is possible that through the transformative beauty that is pain, we gain a union and relationship so close with Jesus, we forgot the pain it took to get there? And we were glad, joyous even upon emerging from the fog of pain. Discovering to our delight how much closer we are to Christ. How much more complete our very existence is from knowing Him through our pain.
If these are true than I have made a terrible mistake in seeing pain as a monster, in trying to elude it at every turn.
Every speck of pain, even something so simple as a headache, is an invitation. An invitation to partake in the transformative beauty that comes from knowing Jesus Christ. I am called not to avoid that pain, but to reach out and take the hand it offers me. To accept the invitation. To follow Jesus into that garden at Gethsemane. To enter willingly into it with Him and to not fall asleep in doing so.
Pain carries with it an invitation to live.
I am not ready for pain. I never am. It always catches me unawares. I can’t claim that I will ever desire to seek it out either. However. My seeing pain for what it is is a game changer. Now that I no longer seek to end it as quickly as possible or to dodge it completely, now that I am no longer expending energy trying with all my might to avoid it, a funny thing has happened. I’m not afraid of it anymore. I am not afraid to experience pain anymore.
I have so much pain left to experience during my lifetime.
I have so much to learn from pain.
So many invitations to accept.
So many opportunities to enter into my suffering and let it change me, even as I am begging for it to be taken away.
So much more of Jesus’ heart to discover.
Pain is a beautiful gift, an invitation to live.
