The Flood Waters of Pain
This post is part of a series where I unpack the wise words of a friend and mentor. You can read more about those words here.
I was five years old, and my friend Amber and I were tasting that thrill that comes from being sightly out of control. We had discovered that we could pick up some serious speed when we rode my pink Big Wheel down my inclined driveway. So, with Amber standing on the back, holding onto my shoulders, I started at the top of the driveway and pedaled as fast as I could.
We were speeding down toward the road, when I looked between the last two Juniper trees that lined our driveway. Thrill changed to terror when I saw the Suburban coming, but couldn’t stop. Amber jumped off the back of my bike just before I went under the rear passenger-side tire of that moving vehicle.
Miraculously, only my left foot and ankle were run over. As the doctors examined the fractured bones and discussed the process of skin graphs with my parents, people all over the world began praying (thanks to good, old-fashioned, pre-social media, telephone prayer chains). In the days and weeks that followed, those prayers were answered as the wound healed, without needing skin graphs, and the broken bones slowly mended, with the help of several casts.
When the last cast was removed, the doctor sent my mom off with some cursory words about my needing to take it easy as I learned to bear weight on the left side and walk again. But, he didn’t suggest physical therapy or rehabilitation.
As you might expect, learning to walk again was painful. But, I discovered ways to decrease that pain. If I walked on my toes and the balls of my feet, barely allowing my heels to touch the ground, the pain in my left leg and ankle was less intense.
Instead of working through the pain to restore normal, healthy function, I created a pattern of movement that may have decreased my short-term discomfort, but most certainly caused long-term damage to my entire body. “Toe-walking” lead to an instability in my ankle, knee and hip that caused frequent falls and injuries.
For nearly two decades, I piled sandbag on top of sandbag trying to keep the flood waters of pain away. I avoided any activity that I thought could potentially irritate my bad ankle. I missed many opportunities to have fun because I was afraid of feeling pain.
We all do the same thing with emotional pain, don’t we? We avoid it at all costs. We act and speak from a place of fear instead of intention. While there are many problems with this practice, it is often most destructive when someone we love and care for is hurting.
“God needed him more than you did.”
“At least you found out he cheated on you before you had children.”
“I never did like her; I just knew she would hurt you.”
“I told you those french fries were not good for you!”
“One day you’ll look back at this whole thing and laugh.”
We aren’t comforting our hurting loved ones with these words, we are pushing their pain away. We say things like this to make ourselves feel better, to avoid feeling our own pain, to placate our own fears. We add sandbags to our own wall, instead of willingly wading in the waters of pain with our loved ones.
For almost four years, I’ve been meditating on Judith Lasater’s words, “…deal with your own sadness in such a way that enables you to be in the presence of someone else’s sadness without needing to push it away.” I regularly take inventory of my emotional pain and slowly try to deconstruct the sandbag walls I’ve built around my heart.
While I’m far from perfect, I am getting better at quieting my own fears when a loved one is in pain. I take deep breaths. I listen. I speak only after checking my intentions. I remind myself that it is only when I am willing to be present with pain, that I am of any comfort to a hurting soul.
Eventually, the sandbag wall I had constructed to avoid discomfort in my ankle failed and unavoidable pain flooded in. The simple act of walking was excruciating. I went to several doctors and considered medicating my pain. But, by the grace of God, I was blessed to meet some amazingly talented healers.
These yoga teachers and massage therapists jumped into the flooding waters with me. They listened; they watched; they studied. They were able to see things doctors had missed for years. They kindly, compassionately helped me through the long, painful process of breaking down my unhealthy movement patterns.
While I still battle occasional pain from that injury, I am far healthier today because a handful of people were willing to be present with my pain. And their presence opened the door to my healing.
If we really want to be a comfort to our hurting loved ones, if we long to be part of the healing process, we must first be present with their pain.
How has someone else’s presence with your pain opened the doors to healing? What practices do you use to enable yourself to really be present with a loved one’s pain? I’d love to hear from you in the comments!
