I Run to Him in My Pain
by Kay Warren
There is a tendency in all of us to shake our fists at God in anger and recrimination when life smacks us around. Frequently, our response is to pull away from him in disappointment, disillusionment, and bitterness. We instinctively know that he could prevent or at least mitigate whatever suffering comes into our lives; ultimately he is in charge of our universe.

“It’s all his fault,” we reason.

I was like Job one day, wearily storming heaven’s doors, insisting on answers to my questions, my doubts, my fears, my anger. I knew the theological truths about heaven and the ways in which this life prepares us for the next, but my conclusion was “The system sucks. There has to be a better way. I don’t get it at all.” I rested on my couch — a pale, bald creature physically weakened from chemotherapy and nauseated; emotionally drained by fear, anxiety, and depression; and spiritually aching, bombarded with existential questions of cosmic proportions.

“I need to hear from God!” I moaned. “I need satisfactory answers that will ease the pain of my suffering. I can barely stand my own pain, but I’m also feeling the pain of people I don’t even know! What is God’s explanation for this broken system?”

My passionate yet weak voice trailed away into silence. My friend Elizabeth wisely didn’t try to shut me up, placate me with the standard answers, or tell me that I was playing with fire. She cried with me, held my hand, and confirmed that my pain was real. She assured me that my questions were valid and affirmed that I was doing the right thing — running to God in my pain, not away from him. Gently she spoke the conviction of her heart: “He is good; whether or not you and I can see it, he is good.”

My agonized soul did not get an audience with God that day — at least not in the way I was asking for. But through the compassionate voice of a friend, God spoke to me and reminded me of who he is, of his unchanging character, and of his promise to never leave me.

Suffering permitted the trappings of normal life to be stripped away, exposing my faith to reality testing. It allowed me to discover the holes, inconsistencies, and weak spots in my relationship to God that I wasn’t aware of. Suddenly I was faced with this challenge: I claim to love and trust God, but do I really? I say that I believe he is a loving Father, but do I really believe it? How quickly do I turn on him? How fast do I jettison my beliefs when my life and my beliefs collide? How viciously do I accuse him when pain, sorrow, disappointment, betrayal, tragedy, or losses come my way? Will my faith survive the tests? Do I even have faith?

The Bible says that troubles and trials put our faith on display so our true colors are seen. It doesn’t matter what we say we believe; a watching world evaluates whether or not our faith is real by our reactions to suffering:

“Consider it a sheer gift, friends, when tests and challenges come at you from all sides. You know that under pressure, your faith-life is forced into the open and shows its true colors. So don’t try to get out of anything prematurely. Let it do its work so you become mature and well-developed, not deficient in any way” (James 1:2-4 The Message).

Searing heat and gale-force winds come into every life. No one is immune or exempt. Sometimes we see it coming — a siren blows, and we’re alerted that something bad is headed our way. Other times there is no warning — unexpectedly our feet get knocked out from under us, and we’re on the ground before we know what hit us. In those times, our faith-life is exposed, and we have to ask ourselves, “What am I holding on to?”

I’m not a sailor, but I love the imagery in the 2003 movie Master and Commander. During a fierce storm, Captain Jack Aubrey (played by Russell Crowe) strapped himself to the mast of his ship so he wouldn’t be washed overboard by the enormous waves. The ship pitched one direction and then the other, and although the colossal waves tore at his body, he remained safely tethered to the mast.

Years before I had cancer, I made a commitment to God and said, “I am yours to do with as you wish. I know I won’t understand you fully, and I will probably keep asking questions, but I know you love me.” I lashed myself to the mast, so that no matter how strong the winds may blow, how violently the sea crashes over my little ship, or how powerfully the storm threatens to rip me from the mast, I will not be moved. The “mast” of my faith is this bedrock truth: God is good.

Because I am completely confident that God’s character is unimpeachable — pure, spotless, wholesome, wholly righteous, with not even a hint of evil — he can be trusted with all that concerns me. The Bible speaks with one voice throughout its pages, revealing a God who is good to the core. The psalmist declares, “Good and upright is the LORD” (Psalm 25:8). A choir of priests sing, “He is good; his love endures forever,” in 2 Chronicles 5:13. Jesus says of his Father, “No one is good — except God alone” (Mark 10:17).

Being convinced of that truth, I run to him in my pain, not away from him. I’m certain that God uses suffering to test me, to purify me, and to make me stronger, and because of that, I’m willing to stay connected to him. I long for my responses to pain to be ones that reveal my trust in him and his goodness. This is how joy and sorrow coexist. The apostle Peter gives wise counsel about this subject:

“So be truly glad! There is wonderful joy ahead, even though it is necessary for you to endure many trials for a while. These trials are only to test your faith, to show that it is strong and pure. It is being tested as fire tests and purifies gold — and your faith is far more precious to God than mere gold. So if your faith remains strong after being tried by fiery trials, it will bring you much praise and glory and honor on the day when Jesus Christ is revealed to the whole world” (1 Peter 1:6–7 NLT)

All cancer is not the same, and breast cancer is one in which the doctors will never pronounce you cured. They will tell you that you’re in remission, which means they can’t find any cancer in your body, but there is always the possibility that some rogue cells escaped the surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy and are floating through your system, only to resurface at a later date. That possibility began to fill my thoughts as I approached the end of treatment and the fear level began to rise again. The what-ifs began to consume me.

The passage—Job 23:10—that had brought wonderful comfort in the beginning now became my lifeline. I found peace in knowing that while I cannot control how long I live, I can control how I live. One of my mottoes is “Control the controllables and leave the uncontrollables to God.” I don’t get to determine the length of my days, but I can determine the quality of the days given to me. I wanted “gold” — character — to be produced from my fiery suffering.

I have determined to live my life, not looking over my shoulder to see if cancer is catching up with me, but looking forward to each day I receive. At the same time, all of my illusions about any guarantees of long life are gone and there is a sense of urgency about what I do. I am keenly aware of how fragile life is, how brief and how holy it is. Knowing life’s fragility causes me to be more intentional, more passionate, more convinced of the sweetness of this moment, and more convicted than before that I am here for a reason. I don’t want to waste a second of the time I have been given.

From Dangerous Surrender: What Happens When You Say Yes to God by Kay Warren