A gracious soul may look through the darkest cloud and see a man smiling at him. -Thomas Brooks
My slim passport has been stamped only twice, as God has chosen to keep me close to home. I am deeply grateful for this quotidian life he has appointed me.
Given these facts, one might be surprised to learn that I travel abroad regularly, whipping across international borders.
My paperless passport, as I call it, has been stamped with passages to dark, dingy hallways, hovels, and stark, lonesome rooms where time crawls. Destinations no one would choose.
It is a funny thing: this tattered passport has grown increasingly precious with time, its title embossed in the softest gold: Suffering.
Suffering is the terror of unwanted places: cross-country moves, fears, death, abandonment, persecution, strife, sickness, wretched misunderstandings, and sin.
Here is the hidden treasure: every single stamp has been sanctioned by God and sifted through his hands.
Suffering is a severe blade. A scalpel used to scrape the world’s plaque from my thumping heart. A blade causing me to whimper as it shaves through my rebellion, dropping me to my knees in both agony and wonder, an unbidden awakening that pushes my flesh and fragile bones closer to God.
Time and again, the Lord has patiently gathered my crushed spirits, singing over me while stitching me back together with his long and loving needle, creating something new from torn rags. A woman slowly transformed, growing resilient yet tender, with an inner beauty mirroring her Savior.
Even so, I remain a creature of forgetfulness, requiring paper and pen to stir up my soul-waters and refine my affections as I preach the truth to myself: God is working behind the scenes for my good.
Our Maker, while never capricious, does what he pleases to transform his redeemed. More often than not, our transformation comes by suffering.
As Ligon Duncan said: There is a God we want and a God who is, and the two are not the same.
***
Once upon a time, for the better part of a year, I devoted a large slice of time to discipling a younger woman. It felt audacious, given the hours already set aside to serve my own growing family and church.
Nevertheless, I happily dove into teaching and mentoring. The two of us dug into a rich Bible study. She leaned on me for encouragement and guidance. We laughed and cried and prayed.
I had absolutely no inclination that this relationship would end with a new stamp in my passport. After the study ended, our friendship continued until one day, without fanfare, sans conflict, she disappeared. It was nothing short of bizarre.
In my astonishment and grief, I neglected to skim my passport and trace the faithfulness of God throughout previous sufferings. For a time, I ceased to sing my own song amid solace and sorrow: God is always working and always good.
The days bled into weeks, then months, and although life carried on, I kept asking my husband the same tired question: How could this have happened without warning? until I finally realized the time had come to grant my open wound the rest it needed to heal. So, one moonless night, I sat still in bed, and with my eyes closed and hands open, I thanked God.
For what?
For his sovereignty in granting me this trial. For inviting me to share in the fellowship of Christ’s sufferings. For his broad forgiveness of my own sins. For providing me this sweet opportunity to mentor and befriend this woman in the first place. For the remembrance that no matter what, His Word will never return void.
I also thanked him for mapping out my personal passport, a journey stuffed with throbbing grief and wisdom.
***
For over fifty years, I have experienced an injury-free life. I walked, jogged, and rode my bike whenever and however I wished. Fast walking in the beauty of our neighborhood, through winding paths and golf course hills, has long been my beloved morning ritual–one of my favorite activities in the whole wide world.
Early last summer, I unwittingly embarked on what would become my last neighborhood walk for the better part of a year. The following week, I injured my knee on our family vacation, skipped medical treatment for weeks, and wrongly assumed things would heal on their own. One sunny morning soon thereafter, I felt a snap and dropped to the floor, in excruciating pain.
A brand-new stamp in my passport.
I get it – some people revel in being waited upon, served, coddled. To others, such as myself, this is anathema.
I have been forced to cradle my independent streak in both hands and offer it to God. If this cup won’t pass, I will trust him, still.
For many months following my injury, I hobbled on crutches and could not lace my sneakers, vacuum our home, cook dinner, or let our dog outside. I could not stand on crutches for five minutes without wincing, nor was I able to retrieve the mail or go grocery shopping.
The truth felt crushing: I was needy.
Those beloved morning walks?
Gone.
God had plans. I was forced to learn to ask for help and graciously receive it without perpetually apologizing. I had to accept (and believe) the words of a physical therapist who said I might be feeling normal one year out, no promises.
This passport stamp has flown me not only to the land of physical pain, but also into a new community. Far from the prized, quiet nature walk to begin my writing days, I now exercise with other women who are rehabbing, a sorority of sisters with the gift of gab, tugging at my introverted nature. Women who have truly become dear to me. I have been graced with several opportunities to share the hope of Christ, and am praying that God will plant these tiny seeds upon good soil and cause them to take root and flourish.
I would love to report that I have brilliantly conquered this round of suffering, but the truth is layered. In the quiet places, way down deep, I still feel a prick of despair regarding my physical limitations and the death of complete independence. I continue to battle the envy that arises while driving past fast-walkers, folks able to stride effortlessly toward the warm, rising sun as it ascends the pretty tree line.
On the upside, my compassion for others has deepened, and I am both spellbound and encouraged by Christians with permanent disabilities who suffer with increasing joy, thankful and pleasant, whistling through affliction as they trust God. I am their new pupil, whether they know it or not, shadowing them as they journey onward through fragility.
These fresh stamps in my paperless passport have prompted me to scour the writings of saints who have suffered beyond the pale, while remaining well with God. Men and women worth emulating: Corrie Ten Boom, John and Betty Stam, Geoffrey T. Bull, Amy Carmichael, David Livingstone, Esther Ahn Kim, and Joni Eareckson Tada.
***
Today, I flipped through the pages of my passport and smiled, tilting my face toward the rising sun. God is working, God is sovereign, and God is good.
Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.
Romans 5:3-5
The Palest Ink 