When Pain Moves In

So much brokenness.

Personal loss has a way of violently turning sympathy into heartbreaking understanding. No longer can we hold the pain of others at arm’s length: “I’m so sorry.” “I’ll pray for you.” “I can’t even imagine.” Grief strips away the selfish insulation we built to keep us safe from the pain around us. The brokenness has infiltrated our homes, our schools; our workplaces. Those places we fled to, that we thought were safe, are no longer so. The pain has breached our defenses, climbed over the walls, and taken up residence. Before June 30th, I had the luxury of only being neighbors with great pain. But, on June 30th, at 7:00 pm, pain kicked down the door and took up residence in the room where Jacob once lived.

Pain has many names: Hurricane Irma, Maria, racism, slavery, the absence of Jacob Williams, George Crouse, Brian Udovich. And these are only the recent, better-known names of pain. Sometimes, our pain isn’t “shocking” enough for many people to learn its name. Other times, the pain that we know on a first name basis, that has taken up permanent residence in our lives, is only an acquaintance to everyone else. They may have known its name once, but over time, they have forgotten.

No one wants to learn the names of pain. Pain, whatever the name, is awkward, uncomfortable, and difficult. When pain moves in, the house is never the same. There is a new resident in your heart, one that leaves messes in every room. The people you have let into your heart in the past now feel uncomfortable there, amidst the mess. They try to help you clean it up, contain it to one room, one part of your life. They give advice, try to fix it. They mean well, but they don’t understand that pain refuses to be kept in a back room. Eventually, the unspoken pressure to get the house in order makes us hide inside our hearts, stopping others at the front door. We don’t want them to see that pain is still wrecking the house.

We sit alone in the shambles of our heart, seeing, with new, startling clarity, all the brokenness around us. And it seems that pain has not only moved in, but evicted all of our hope. Lights off, curtains pulled tight, laying in the messy darkness, there is a knock at the door.

“Who lives here?” says a voice.

“Pain,” you shakily answer, expecting that answer to suffice in running the person off.

“Tell me the name of your pain.” The door opens a crack, light comes in.

Agonized, you mourn. The light brought in by this man stands in stark contrast with the messy darkness of the house. You wait for him to start telling you how to fix it. But Jesus simply sits, in the mess, in the brokenness, with pain breaking another lamp in the next room and says again, “Tell me about your pain.” He learns the name of your pain, and then moves into the room right next to it. And the hope you thought pain had evicted moves back in with Him. You are not alone.

So much brokenness.

But we have a hope.

Our pain has a name, and Jesus knows it. He has been in every room of the house, seen all the damage pain has done, and, still, He stays. He builds no insulating wall separating Himself from our pain. He does not care that it is uncomfortable and difficult. Because He knows that pain is not the only resident in our hearts: He knows we live there too. And if He has to be with pain to be with us, He will.

And we quickly realize, this is what we need. We do not need people to contain our pain to a back room, acting as if it doesn’t exist. We need people who will love us enough to be uncomfortable, enough to sit in our house as pain dumps dirty laundry down the stairs and jumps up and down on the couch. We need people to truly love us like Jesus.

Because when pain moves in, Jesus takes up residence in the next room.