“I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?”
—C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces
Most people talk about pain in terms of what they have or are immersed in:
“I have a lot of pain.”
“I’m in a lot of pain.”
But some of the hardest questions about pain aren’t about what we have or are in—they’re about what we’ve lost:
- What can you no longer do?
- How much activity is gone?
- How much quality of life has slipped away?
Since waking up from my wreck in 1983, those questions—and more—have been a permanent part of my daily conversations. Pain has taken things from me.
I vividly remember, during our honeymoon, the gut-punch realization that I could no longer walk on the beach without help. I grew up on Florida’s panhandle, where sugar-white sand met emerald waters. Walking those beaches was second nature to me. But on our honeymoon, standing on another beach, I felt the fresh sting of loss—right in the middle of what should have been one of the happiest weeks of my life.
And that’s the thing about pain. It’s never just about the physical sensation—it’s about everything it erodes.
Peter has a theory: He says we can’t actually remember the sensation of pain. I’ve argued with him (extensively) about this—so, how about we not tell him that he’s right.
Because I live in constant pain, the lines blur—I can’t remember not being in pain. But he’s right: we don’t recall the feeling of pain itself. We remember being in pain, and that it was either annoying or agonizing. What we remember most clearly is our reaction to it.
Peter says that when we stub a toe (not the best example for me—let’s move on), we react instantly. If someone’s around, we grimace and say, “Ow!” If we’re alone, we might swear. The severity of the pain, or its unfamiliarity, dictates our response.
When I broke my femur, I didn’t just react—I screamed. The pain was searing. I could hardly think straight.
And in certain traumas—physical, emotional, relational, financial—our reactions often take a theological turn. Instead of (or in addition to) swearing, we start hurling indictments at God:
“Why would YOU do this to me?”
“What kind of good and loving God allows this?”
Have you ever asked those questions? I have.
Did you get an answer?
Now, here’s the part where Peter really wears me out (he can really go on and on …I guess that’s why he has a radio show.)
Peter doesn’t just ask if I asked those questions—he presses further:
“What did you do with the questions?”
We ask Why, God? and What kind of God…? in the heat of the moment. But as time passes, the stubbed toe heals, the broken femur mends, the ink dries on the divorce papers, the grass grows on the grave—and we shove the theological questions back in a box, unanswered.
Until the next trauma reopens them.
But for those of us with chronic pain, the questions never get put away. We never stop saying, “Ow.” The reaction never gets a break.
When you live with relentless pain, you must deal with your reactions. From screaming and swearing to questioning God’s goodness, I’ve wrestled with all of it. If I don’t, I’ll go “barking mad” (Peter’s words, not mine—but, it kind of describes it well, doesn’t it?)
Some try to numb pain with drugs, alcohol, or other anesthetics. I’ve been on pain medication for more than forty years. Let me assure you—there is no pill on earth that can answer these questions.
We must come to an understanding of God that transcends suffering, sorrow, and loss.
This is what God, in His mercy and grace, has led me to wrestle with.
I can’t walk on a beach without help, but I will run and not grow weary. I will walk and not faint (Isaiah 40:31, NKJV). I fight for sleep every night, groaning from the pain. But the Bible says the Holy Spirit groans with me, right alongside me (Romans 8:26, NKJV).
Pain has cost me much. But through my pain, I have gained an understanding of God’s provision, promise, and presence.
It always, always, always comes down to the Cross. Peter often says that sin is a bigger problem than we think, and the Cross is more magnificent than we can imagine. For the joy set before Him, Jesus endured the Cross (Hebrews 12:2, NKJV). Paul echoed this when he said the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed (Romans 8:18, NKJV).
When my heart falters (which happens daily), I borrow Paul’s conviction—despite his own scars and trauma. Greater still, I lean on my Savior’s resolve to bear the penalty of sin in His own body. He set His face like flint (Isaiah 50:7, NKJV) and endured the unimaginable. Knowing this strengthens me to endure what I face daily.
My conviction now is that one day, in a pain-free body, I’ll look at Peter, laugh, and say, “You were right—I can’t remember pain.”
“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.”
—Revelation 21:4, NKJV
“I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?”
—C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces
Most people talk about pain in terms of what they have or are immersed in:
“I have a lot of pain.”
“I’m in a lot of pain.”
But some of the hardest questions about pain aren’t about what we have or are in—they’re about what we’ve lost:
- What can you no longer do?
- How much activity is gone?
- How much quality of life has slipped away?
Since waking up from my wreck in 1983, those questions—and more—have been a permanent part of my daily conversations. Pain has taken things from me.
I vividly remember, during our honeymoon, the gut-punch realization that I could no longer walk on the beach without help. I grew up on Florida’s panhandle, where sugar-white sand met emerald waters. Walking those beaches was second nature to me. But on our honeymoon, standing on another beach, I felt the fresh sting of loss—right in the middle of what should have been one of the happiest weeks of my life.
And that’s the thing about pain. It’s never just about the physical sensation—it’s about everything it erodes.
Peter has a theory: He says we can’t actually remember the sensation of pain. I’ve argued with him (extensively) about this—so, how about we not tell him that he’s right.
Because I live in constant pain, the lines blur—I can’t remember not being in pain. But he’s right: we don’t recall the feeling of pain itself. We remember being in pain, and that it was either annoying or agonizing. What we remember most clearly is our reaction to it.
Peter says that when we stub a toe (not the best example for me—let’s move on), we react instantly. If someone’s around, we grimace and say, “Ow!” If we’re alone, we might swear. The severity of the pain, or its unfamiliarity, dictates our response.
When I broke my femur, I didn’t just react—I screamed. The pain was searing. I could hardly think straight.
And in certain traumas—physical, emotional, relational, financial—our reactions often take a theological turn. Instead of (or in addition to) swearing, we start hurling indictments at God:
“Why would YOU do this to me?”
“What kind of good and loving God allows this?”
Have you ever asked those questions? I have.
Did you get an answer?
Now, here’s the part where Peter really wears me out (he can really go on and on …I guess that’s why he has a radio show.)
Peter doesn’t just ask if I asked those questions—he presses further:
“What did you do with the questions?”
We ask Why, God? and What kind of God…? in the heat of the moment. But as time passes, the stubbed toe heals, the broken femur mends, the ink dries on the divorce papers, the grass grows on the grave—and we shove the theological questions back in a box, unanswered.
Until the next trauma reopens them.
But for those of us with chronic pain, the questions never get put away. We never stop saying, “Ow.” The reaction never gets a break.
When you live with relentless pain, you must deal with your reactions. From screaming and swearing to questioning God’s goodness, I’ve wrestled with all of it. If I don’t, I’ll go “barking mad” (Peter’s words, not mine—but, it kind of describes it well, doesn’t it?)
Some try to numb pain with drugs, alcohol, or other anesthetics. I’ve been on pain medication for more than forty years. Let me assure you—there is no pill on earth that can answer these questions.
We must come to an understanding of God that transcends suffering, sorrow, and loss.
This is what God, in His mercy and grace, has led me to wrestle with.
I can’t walk on a beach without help, but I will run and not grow weary. I will walk and not faint (Isaiah 40:31, NKJV). I fight for sleep every night, groaning from the pain. But the Bible says the Holy Spirit groans with me, right alongside me (Romans 8:26, NKJV).
Pain has cost me much. But through my pain, I have gained an understanding of God’s provision, promise, and presence.
It always, always, always comes down to the Cross. Peter often says that sin is a bigger problem than we think, and the Cross is more magnificent than we can imagine. For the joy set before Him, Jesus endured the Cross (Hebrews 12:2, NKJV). Paul echoed this when he said the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed (Romans 8:18, NKJV).
When my heart falters (which happens daily), I borrow Paul’s conviction—despite his own scars and trauma. Greater still, I lean on my Savior’s resolve to bear the penalty of sin in His own body. He set His face like flint (Isaiah 50:7, NKJV) and endured the unimaginable. Knowing this strengthens me to endure what I face daily.
My conviction now is that one day, in a pain-free body, I’ll look at Peter, laugh, and say, “You were right—I can’t remember pain.”
“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.”
—Revelation 21:4, NKJV