When Pain Becomes Your Prayer
Do you ever feel like your body has become a battlefield instead of the temple it's supposed to be? I certainly do. As someone who wrestles daily with chronic illness, I've learned that some mornings the greatest act of faith is simply swinging my legs out of bed and placing my feet on the floor.
Yesterday was one of those days. The pain in my back, neck, and shoulders had me practically immobilized, and as I struggled to type out a few sentences, I found myself staring at the ceiling and asking the age-old question: "God, what are You doing?" It's a question I've asked more times than I care to admit, usually through tears and with a hefty dose of frustration thrown in for good measure.
For years, I approached my chronic pain like it was an enemy to be defeated, something standing between me and the "real" ministry God had called me to do. I prayed for healing. I begged for relief. I bargained with God, promising all sorts of wonderful service if only He would take away this thorn in my flesh. But here's what I've slowly, painfully (pun intended) come to understand: What if the suffering itself is the ministry? What if God isn't waiting for my pain to end before He can use me?
The apostle Paul knew something about this. When he pleaded with God to remove his thorn in the flesh, God's response wasn't what he expected: "My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness" (2 Corinthians 12:9). Notice God didn't say His grace would be sufficient after the problem was removed. He said it is sufficient. Present tense, right here in the middle of the mess.
Romans 5:3-5 puts it this way: "And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; And patience, experience; and experience, hope: And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us".
The verse doesn't say suffering might produce something good if we're lucky. It says suffering produces patience, and patience produces character, and character produces hope. It's a divine assembly line where nothing is wasted.
I used to think that if I could just get healthy, then I could really serve God. Then I could write more, teach more, do more. But God has taught me that my chronic illness isn't a detour from His plan. It is His plan. Through my weakness, I've connected with other sufferers who needed to know they weren't alone. Through my limitations, I've learned to depend on God in ways I never would have if life were easy. Through my pain, I've discovered compassion I didn't know I possessed.
The suffering hasn't been pointless. It's been producing something. Every morning I choose to get up despite the pain, I'm producing endurance. Every time I serve God even when my body is screaming at me to quit, I'm producing character. Every moment I trust Him in the darkness, I'm producing hope, not just for me but for everyone watching my journey.
Jesus understands this better than anyone. His suffering wasn't a mistake—it was the plan. "For even the Son of man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give his life a ransom for many" (Mark 10:45). Christ's suffering had purpose, and so does ours. We don't suffer like Jesus suffered, but we do suffer with Jesus, and that gives our pain eternal significance.
Your chronic pain isn't the end of your story. It might actually be the most powerful chapter. The world doesn't need more people who've never suffered telling others to "just have faith." The world needs people like you and me, people who've been through the fire and can testify that God met us there.
So the next time your body reminds you that something's not right, remember: God is using this. It's producing something beautiful, even if you can't see it yet. And one day, when we're finally home with Him where there's no more pain or tears (Revelation 21:4), we'll look back and understand. Until then, we walk by faith, one painful step at a time.