Before I share my story, I want to acknowledge God responds to each of us differently, for reasons we may never understand this side of heaven. If God presently seems silent, or you can’t “hear” Him above your pain, I hope this video I shared on social media last week encourages you.
Now to my story. 🙂
There I stood, surrounded by a room full of women who were obviously connecting deeply with the Lord, and I felt nothing. I realize we won’t always tangibly sense God’s presence. I also know not to gauge my faith based on emotion and experience, both of which tend to become swayed by my circumstances. But I came to the event, traveling 1,350 miles, for two reasons: to see precious friends I typically only engage with online, and to encounter Christ.
Worse, as I sought Him in prayer, asking Him to search my heart and remove everything that stood between us, I realized it had been a while since I’d felt the fullness of His Spirit. Numerous weeks, in fact.
I don’t talk about this often, but it’s been a challenging season. I’ve battled chronic pain for nearly ten years, but normally keep it well managed. While it has, on occasion, increased to nearly unbearable levels, the intensity has always eventually decreased. Therefore, I’ve consoled myself with the reminder that the severity won’t last indefinitely.
A couple months ago, however, the pain spiked and remained. It was also part of the reason I felt so spiritually empty the opening session of the Communicators Collective, an event designed specifically to refuel and encourage Christian women called to write and speak. The longer I stood, the deeper the ache in my legs and the sharper the stabs of pain shooting up my back and through my arms.
That evening, knowing the physical consequences, should I stay much longer, I left by eight, just as the event leader Angelia Donadio took the mic to deliver the opening message. This also meant standing and walking out in front of her and a roomful of people who, I feared, found my behavior rude.
That night was one of my worst yet, made all the more painful by the anguish gripping my soul. I was angry at God for allowing my suffering to continue for so long, and frankly, rarely prayed for healing anymore. I’d spent years begging for a miracle that never came. I also began to question my future. What if the severity of my pain lasted indefinitely? Would this be the rest of my life?
Nerve endings on fire, muscles cramping, with gritted teeth, my soul cried out, Lord, where are you?
The next morning, sleep deprived, still hurting, and more discouraged than I’ve been in some time, I contemplated not attending the rest of the event. I might not have, if my husband hadn’t said, firmly, “You need to go. You need to finish what you started.”
He’s rarely spoken into my life with such authority, and both instances have led to powerful encounters with God. I soon discovered, this time was no different. It just so happened that a recent Faith Over Fear guest, Pam Farrel, spoke on a leadership panel that day. In fact, her episode, recorded with my co-host Carol McCracken, had dropped that very morning. It also “just so happened” that the panel host, Becky Harling, guided the discussion on honoring one’s limits. I leaned in as Pam talked about some of the numerous things her fight against ovarian cancer have cost her. While my journey hasn’t been anywhere near as difficult, it has cost me a lot, including my ability to travel for speaking engagements. The long car rides, hours on my feet, and late nights have simply become too much, and I grieve that.
Then she shared something that filled me with praise but didn’t resonate personally until the next day. She talked about how intense pain brought her to the doctor, where they found a cyst that had become twisted around her ovaries. They also discovered her disease. “They call ovarian cancer a silent killer,” she said, “because it doesn’t usually produce symptoms.”
In other words, her pain saved her life.
The following morning, I felt God captivating me with John 8:12, which reads, “When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, ‘I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.’” In my Bible’s margin, I wrote, “To follow, one must keep their eyes on their leader, remain close, and trust that He is indeed leading.” I immediately thought of the pillar of fire God used to guide the Israelites through the wilderness toward the Promised land. While I didn’t yet fully understand the robust message God was (and still is) communicating to me through that verse, and the Old Testament connection, I knew I needed to keep my eyes on Him, not my pain.
That day, I sought Pam out and asked if we could speak. As we did, I shared how much I resonated with her story along with the sorrow I felt for relinquishing something I’ve long enjoyed. I recognized God was using me in other ways, like through podcasting and video devotions. I also realized those mediums allowed me to reach hundreds of thousands more people than I ever had through a speaking engagement.
“I don’t know why this is so hard,” I said. “Except that it feels like I didn’t choose it. Like pain stole this from me.”
“You need to think about it differently,” she said. “Our world is changing, and God is setting you up for what’s ahead.”
I understood what she meant. With a plethora of powerful content easily accessed online, fewer women attend in-person events. While I don’t know how long my season will last, I do know God is increasingly shifting me to new territory. As He was doing with the Israelites who trekked through the wilderness so long ago. They thought Moses was leading them, and whenever they didn’t understand or like the direction they were heading, they wanted to find a new leader. Similarly, I had thought my pain was leading me. But God was, and always is, our ultimate leader. That doesn’t mean He caused my pain. Scripture makes clear, He is not the author of evil. But He did use it to grab my attention.
Circling back to that discouraging evening at the Communicator’s Collective when it felt like my throbbing legs kept me from experiencing God. I thought my pain kept me from hearing Him, and for a time, it did. But in the end, He spoke through it.
I found God not in the absence of pain, or in spite of it, but in it.
