3. Learning to Feel – Pain

Note: These “Learning to Feel” blog entries are copied here from chapter 5 of my book, New in the Middle. I’ve included them here because they share the main defining moments in my life. Instead of a chronological timeline, I tell my stories in a new way—from the perspective of my emotions.

Learning to Feel: Pain

Does pain count as an emotion? I feel overwhelmed. I feel love. I feel pain. Yet, while overwhelm bullies its way into my mind, and love rests in my heart, pain very definitely lives in my body. Though it might be interesting (to me) to write a whole chapter detailing all my aches and pains, I’ll summarize and simply say that I experience a great deal of pain on a regular basis. Interestingly, though my body remains quite weak due to my spinal cord injury, a smaller, far less dramatic injury—breaking my leg falling off a horse—left behind far more debilitating pain. Often blaming myself that I’m just a weakling who cannot actually handle pain, I suffer condemning voices in my mind.

I’m not comfortable with my body, and my body does not feel like it is very comfortable with the amount of life I want to live. This means I have trouble loving myself and feel frustrated by the amount of time spent taking care of my body for it to function semi-normally. Confiding in a friend, I verbalized the thought that God gave me so many children because he knew my physical body did not offer me much to live for. Loving the kids brought me healing, hope, and something to live for beyond my body. When pain joins forces with overwhelm and tells me to give up, stop trying, or hide, the love others have so faithfully given me battles for me and provides reason to live.

Colored pencils are a great medium for meditation and detail. God’s involvement in the details of my life furnishes much fodder for reflection which I’ve always tried to reveal in my detailed artwork. Shading and blending with colored pencils demands slow and careful laying down of subtle layers of color. In the same way, our lives are layered and nuanced by the different roles and activities with which we fill it. Appreciating the layered complexity and beauty requires “eyes to see and ears to hear” (Deut. 29:4). An artists’ eyes are especially suited to find beauty where none would seem to exist. That is our calling.

What do we find when we look with artist-eyes at a life filled with physical pain? This question drums with urgency when physical trauma enters, and the resulting pain takes up residence. On a normal morning while coloring this particular section with a sharp, jagged point representing pain, God spoke to me very clearly with one of the most clear messages he has ever given me. While shading with true blue, my mind wandered. Trying to be honest and not overly negative about my emotions, I realized that God has given me a lot of peace over the years. Should a whole section of this drawing represent the emotion of peace? Hmmm…where could that be squeezed on to my small notebook page?

Suddenly, in the middle of my thought, God spoke: “Sarah, the peace is in the pain.”

Like a lightning bolt in my brain, God showed me that the kind of peace He wants to give me lives right in the middle of the pain. In this central place, he makes his peace available whenever I choose to access it. The peace God wants to give all of us should not be separate from other factors in our lives. Of course, it feels great to have peace as the only emotion present at a certain time, such as when you are sitting beside a still lake watching a sunset. In my opinion, those moments are too few and far between to serve much purpose. Even the world can give us that kind of peace. No thanks. I want more. I need peace during the chaotic, busy days of life. I need peace when a migraine rips through my head. I need peace when my legs hurt so bad I can barely stand. I need the peace that only God can give: the peace in the pain. Beauty in the dark place.

Small miracles, small resurrections. Not a big feeling like anger or panic, peace provides a small, powerful miracle of calmness that brings order to darkness and chaos. Like a profound stillness or silence, without words peace clearly speaks, “Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid” (Matthew 14:27). From this place of peace, I can begin to search for meaning and purpose.

With Christ in the school of pain, I understand that life consists of much more than the body. The weakness of my body or the brevity of our daughter’s life does not diminish either of us in our value to God. I’m much more than my body, my skill set, or my reserves of random knowledge.

Please remember with me: The peace is in the pain.

To read the whole story, continue to the next blog entry.

God has taught me much about living abundantly within the reality of my limitations. To learn more, check out my book on Amazon.