Pain.
I wouldn’t know who I am without it.
The disappointment. The frustration. The bruised spots on my heart. The anger that seems to erupt all at once.
I don’t know if my experiences with pain are all good or all bad.
In a bad way, I learned to identify with pain. It became the clouded lens through which I viewed life. It became a map for how I navigated the world, so that I didn’t make a wrong turn or bump into detours and dead ends.
In fact, I became comfortable with my pain. I snuggled up to my heartache as if it were the very thing that could provide me with ultimate comfort.
Pain tucked my heart away and told me “people are dangerous.” It motivated me to perfection so that people couldn’t see what I saw and had came to loathe.
Pain enveloped me in fear. If I dug deeper into my hole of despair, no one could uproot the place I called home.
My hole was where I felt safe and remained hidden, unable to be bothered and tormented more than I already was.
To me, pain was my happy place. It was familiar.
It was difficult to see life beyond what I had grown accustomed to. Thoughts of “this is as good as it gets” nestled into the deepest and darkest depths of my mind.
I wrestled with the very thing that hurt me so bad but felt so good.
But it was in my hole of darkness that I had an unusual encounter that began with the glimpse of a faint light.
My vision was hazy because the light was blinding. An unfamiliar hand reached in, saying nothing but showing me I had help.
Frightened, I flinched at the hand, not wanting to believe in goodness. It was impossible for me to believe anything beyond what I believed could exist.
And yet, the hand waited patiently. It allowed me to grow used to its prescence.
Each day, in curiosity, I inched closer to the hand though only an inch or two. And each time, the hand waited patiently, never forcing itself upon me.
And when I had moved close enough, I reached out to the hand, barely reaching the tips of its fingers. Discouraged, I pulled my hand back until a sudden swoop from the hand, took hold of me and lifted me out of my hole.
An unfamiliar face greeted me.
He wrapped me in His arms and hugged me tightly.
I backed away quickly, my face downcast.
I didn’t know who this person was and in my mind, people were dangerous.
He lifted up my chin and gazed into my eyes. Although fearful, a soothing reassurance washed over me.
In a good way, I suppose the pain had its purpose. If it weren’t for pain, I wouldn’t know the tender love that I’ve been able to experience with God.
I had never known such a thing except for being in that hole where I communed with suicide, conversed with anxiety and befriended depression.
Even now, I still flinch at His love. I still have times where I want to come to Him unsoiled, unsure of how He would react if He were to see all of me. And yet, He’s stayed.
Loving me. Guiding me. Walking with me. Rescuing me. Forgiving me.
God’s love is scary, but everyday I’m inching closer, even if just an inch or two, into the arms of the One who saved me.
Chronicles of a Believer 
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