Sacred Hurt
Micah and I have had our share of difficult seasons in twelve years. We talk often about God's provision and faithfulness in the midst of them, and it's absolutely true. Several of the darkest valleys have become my favorite moments in our story, the moments where weakness was turned to strength and God felt closer than at any other time. God has been faithful through illness and injury and tight times, and we've always been excited to reach out to others in their own similar seasons to offer hope and encouragement. It's felt easy to turn our pain into a gift to others.
But then there are other seasons, moments in our story that cut deeply. Valleys that were darker, and more personal, that left us reeling with the pain they brought. God was faithful in those times, too. We walked through them hurt, but whole. He strengthened our faith and trust, cemented our relationship with him and with each other. But they hurt. They still hurt.
I'd be lying if I said I've made those places beautiful, made them a gift to others. Maybe the pain was too deep, or maybe I've found some sort of twisted comfort in clinging to the injury. Like it was a medal for most martyr-like faith. I can't tell you all the reasons, but their memory has always brought a pang. These seasons I haven't shared with others who are hurting. The seasons of job loss, of houses that wouldn't sell and threatened to ruin us financially, the loss of our baby... These have remained, for the most part, frozen in time as periods that were too dark to be used. When others have complained about the long wait to sell their houses--two months, as compared to our three years--I've choked back resentment. My encouraging words have lacked grace, while on the inside I wanted to scream, "You should see what it was like for us! How can you complain--you have no idea!" When people have talked about perfect, healthy pregnancies; about babies born alive and well at full term and dismissed miscarriage as a "loss of pregnancy," I've wanted to beat my chest and say, "How could you?" I've resented those who have never lost jobs--or worse, lost them and found a new job immediately! How could they know the pain of waiting--waiting so long--for answered prayers? How could they understand the sacrifice, the absolute reliance on God in those times? I haven't extended grace to those who were walking in the very same painful, difficult paths we have walked. I resented them. I resented that their story didn't seem as deeply painful, as agonizing, as ours was in those times.
I've never stopped to contemplate the ugliness that has lurked under the surface all these years. I've known it's there--how could I not notice the increase in my heart rate, the anger that seethed as others complained about their similar experiences? I guess I assumed it was part of the lingering pain.
Today, as I sat thinking about all of these things, I saw the ugliness for what it was: I was throwing God's grace back at him. I was failing to acknowledge that these seasons, like the other painful seasons God had brought us through, had been fully redeemed. Our God was faithful to us in those times. His grace was sufficient. It is finished. Those seasons were abundant with his presence and grace, even at the breaking point, at the crux of the agony.
They were places of sacred hurt.
Suddenly, my perspective began to shift. Those seasons, those trials, weren't times we walked through alone with God appearing from time to time, like some kind of consultant deity. They were times when we were taken apart, where we dwelt with God. We abided with him in those places, and he healed our hurts--we were healed! His grace was enough for us in those times, and what's more, they were times set aside, meant just for us. No one else walked through those hurts as personally as Micah, and me, and God. It was a sacred valley, and he was faithful there. He healed our hurt. And here he's waited, all these years, to turn our ashes into beauty.
As my view of all of this changed, suddenly these spaces became places of strength. God had been enough in the worst of our circumstances, we were healed, it was finished. The sacred places of hurt had become sure foundations, solid ground. We could stand on them, because they had stood the test. They were places that had become bedrock in our lives.
The sacred hurt is now a solid place on which I can stand, from where I can reach out, and extend grace to others. I no longer have to withhold grace as though I need to save it for myself. I no longer need to nurse wounds that have already been healed. I am free. I am free to love, and give as freely as God gave to us in those times. His grace was sufficient for us, so that we might overflow with grace for others.
These places of sacred hurt seem more to me, now, like places of retreat--quiet places, off the road of life, where we were cut to the very core and then rebuilt. They were moments more valuable than anything, because they came at a high cost. But what has risen--is rising--from those ashes and broken places holds the power to redeem and heal others in their deepest hurts. I no longer have to hold on to the pain, to withhold using it to help others. I can give freely because I've received freely. My places of pain are now moments of sacred hurt. And that change--subtle as it may be--makes such a beautiful difference.
But then there are other seasons, moments in our story that cut deeply. Valleys that were darker, and more personal, that left us reeling with the pain they brought. God was faithful in those times, too. We walked through them hurt, but whole. He strengthened our faith and trust, cemented our relationship with him and with each other. But they hurt. They still hurt.
I'd be lying if I said I've made those places beautiful, made them a gift to others. Maybe the pain was too deep, or maybe I've found some sort of twisted comfort in clinging to the injury. Like it was a medal for most martyr-like faith. I can't tell you all the reasons, but their memory has always brought a pang. These seasons I haven't shared with others who are hurting. The seasons of job loss, of houses that wouldn't sell and threatened to ruin us financially, the loss of our baby... These have remained, for the most part, frozen in time as periods that were too dark to be used. When others have complained about the long wait to sell their houses--two months, as compared to our three years--I've choked back resentment. My encouraging words have lacked grace, while on the inside I wanted to scream, "You should see what it was like for us! How can you complain--you have no idea!" When people have talked about perfect, healthy pregnancies; about babies born alive and well at full term and dismissed miscarriage as a "loss of pregnancy," I've wanted to beat my chest and say, "How could you?" I've resented those who have never lost jobs--or worse, lost them and found a new job immediately! How could they know the pain of waiting--waiting so long--for answered prayers? How could they understand the sacrifice, the absolute reliance on God in those times? I haven't extended grace to those who were walking in the very same painful, difficult paths we have walked. I resented them. I resented that their story didn't seem as deeply painful, as agonizing, as ours was in those times.
I've never stopped to contemplate the ugliness that has lurked under the surface all these years. I've known it's there--how could I not notice the increase in my heart rate, the anger that seethed as others complained about their similar experiences? I guess I assumed it was part of the lingering pain.
Today, as I sat thinking about all of these things, I saw the ugliness for what it was: I was throwing God's grace back at him. I was failing to acknowledge that these seasons, like the other painful seasons God had brought us through, had been fully redeemed. Our God was faithful to us in those times. His grace was sufficient. It is finished. Those seasons were abundant with his presence and grace, even at the breaking point, at the crux of the agony.
They were places of sacred hurt.
Suddenly, my perspective began to shift. Those seasons, those trials, weren't times we walked through alone with God appearing from time to time, like some kind of consultant deity. They were times when we were taken apart, where we dwelt with God. We abided with him in those places, and he healed our hurts--we were healed! His grace was enough for us in those times, and what's more, they were times set aside, meant just for us. No one else walked through those hurts as personally as Micah, and me, and God. It was a sacred valley, and he was faithful there. He healed our hurt. And here he's waited, all these years, to turn our ashes into beauty.
As my view of all of this changed, suddenly these spaces became places of strength. God had been enough in the worst of our circumstances, we were healed, it was finished. The sacred places of hurt had become sure foundations, solid ground. We could stand on them, because they had stood the test. They were places that had become bedrock in our lives.
The sacred hurt is now a solid place on which I can stand, from where I can reach out, and extend grace to others. I no longer have to withhold grace as though I need to save it for myself. I no longer need to nurse wounds that have already been healed. I am free. I am free to love, and give as freely as God gave to us in those times. His grace was sufficient for us, so that we might overflow with grace for others.
These places of sacred hurt seem more to me, now, like places of retreat--quiet places, off the road of life, where we were cut to the very core and then rebuilt. They were moments more valuable than anything, because they came at a high cost. But what has risen--is rising--from those ashes and broken places holds the power to redeem and heal others in their deepest hurts. I no longer have to hold on to the pain, to withhold using it to help others. I can give freely because I've received freely. My places of pain are now moments of sacred hurt. And that change--subtle as it may be--makes such a beautiful difference.
