A Beautiful Kind of Hurt

I think we all know at some level or another that life hurts sometimes. No matter what you believe or don't believe, everybody at some level or another knows that life just stings sometimes. Sometimes because of circumstances or events or for what seems like no reason at all, the wind seems to leave your lungs.

At times, life feel like it's just hit the absolute bottom. You lie in bed for hours on end. While people play outside, laughing and running, soaking up sunshine, you...you just lounge around the house. You might call it a funk or a lull. Maybe you just feel a bit off or blame it on something you ate last night.

When I'm in one of those hurting moods, I tend to blame a lack of sleep. Which would seem legit to most people because I have irregular sleeping habits and often don't sleep as much as I should. You'll know I'm in a low spot because my cheeks will droop and my face will look older than it is. You'll see me lose a bounce in my step. I'll find myself brought to almost to tears by the most random of things.

I was in a lull a few weeks ago and a couple of my buddies decided to go fishing. So we went out to this pond next to this long stretch of old 210 Highway. We borrowed some poles and bought a box of nightcrawlers. As my friends and I stood next to the pond, drinking Stag beer (a real man's beer. The kind that would sprout hair in the back of your throat) I found myself almost in complete sorrow.

I had a hook in one hand and a nightcrawler lying in the palm of my other hand. The nightcrawler had stopped fighting and squirming and just sat there, devoid of hope. And I stood there, feeling like Abraham on the mountain. Have I the faith to sacrifice this worm--which at that point in my day seemed to live a far more productive life than mine, wallowing away in a shallow, Styrofoam box with other prisoners in the beer cooler of an old gas station.

I stood there, staring at this worm and was unable to pierce him. This was probably most inbalanced struggle with mercy and guilt since Mother Theresa pancaked a mosquito on the back of her neck.

Finally, after a few minutes of starting at this worm in what I thought was it's face--I couldn't really tell--I tossed him into the grass and decided to fish with a bare hook.

I have no idea why I was petrified of murdering a worm and yet totally OK with hooking a fish in the face.

The problem with those sad days isn't that I'm sad. It's that I fail to be sad with the dignity that God offers me. I think there's a way to be in a funk that can bring me closer to joy as opposed to making me bitter. It's just that it can be hard to find that door sometimes.

When I think about what a beautiful kind of hurting looks like, I think of the way I've seen friends of mine mourn with hearts and hands open to God in times of great, great confusion. I think of the parents I've seen struggle with a wayward son -- often feeling like they may have caused their child to go astray -- and yet they make this a time not to stew and brood, but to thirst for God. I think of my friend who for the past two and a half years has struggled with an eating disorder that has threatened to rob her of her identity as a wonderful, redeemed child of God. She could have succumbed to her eating disorder and continued to binge and purge or she could have given up all hope of thinking herself beautiful -- instead, I and many of her friends have gotten to enjoy her as she has started learning how to let God and not the world tell her she's beautiful.

I've watched as victims of sexual abuse have learned that even though that hurt may not go away, they can still find hope. I've watched the most lonely and miserable of people have their hearts melted like butter because they learned to hurt beautifully and to give thanks.

Why would they give thanks? I think it's because when you learn to hurt beautifully, you learn that within every pain -- no matter how deep, no matter how hopeless -- God is right by your side. Even when you don't feel him, God is there with a soft hand and a reassuring voice to say, "There, there...there,there...I've got you. Just look at me. Look at me and I'll get you through this. There, there..."

Now don't get me wrong. To hurt beautifully does not mean that your hurting looks fun or pretty or beautiful. Your pain--your sorrows--will still look ugly. It won't look beautiful to me. It won't look beautiful to you. It won't look beautiful to others. It'll seem unfair and it'll seem pointless that such hurting should exist.

But, I think, that to hurt beautifully means that you learn to look at God. To look at Christ. To look for the Spirit. To know that there is no pain, no confusion, no sadness that He can't overcome. When I start to turn my eyes to Him and to focus on His voice. That's when I can hurt beautifully.

I've seen others do it. It's not easy. It's not going to make the pain go away. But like a child who digs holes in the beach -- wherever pain may rip you open, God will wash in.