PAIN TAUGHT ME TO WRITE ABOUT GOD'S WORD

This is how pain taught me to write about God's word.

"Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us." Romans 3:3-5

When I was eight, I was baptized in a small Baptist church on the Rhode Island border of Northeastern Connecticut. I wasn’t nervous because people would watch me go under the water — I was nervous because I thought God would be watching. The day came, I got wet, and something in me shifted. I can't explain exactly how, but I left the water with a new sense that God was watching my life.

That public confession of faith always felt strange to me. Jesus had been brutally beaten, forced to carry a cross, and then nailed to it — dying in a way that made no sense unless it meant something far beyond pain. I was baptized because I believed in that sacrifice. Yet even as I confessed my faith publicly, a question lived underneath it all: why was I being congratulated for simply saying what I believed? My inward life felt far more complicated than that simple, holy act.

My story with faith didn’t begin at that Baptist church. My mother had a Catholic upbringing; she’d attended a convent school and graduated from a Catholic high school. But when she married my father — a Baptist — the Catholic church reacted harshly. My mother was excommunicated, and we were suddenly moved into the public school system. She spent decades writing to the Pope asking to be reinstated. She kept taking us to churches, searching for a place of welcome because she believed church mattered. That pursuit of belonging has been a constant thread in my life.

In my teens, my body began to betray me. My knee swelled inexplicably, and pain limited what I could do. I gravitated toward choir and writing rather than sports or marching band. When I chose a college major, it felt like the government grants were deciding my future: I needed a “sit-down” career. I’d wanted to study biomedical engineering — to make prosthetics and devices so people could move without pain. Instead, because of the limits imposed by my health, I began to write.

College itself proved difficult. I dropped out when the long, hilly campus of the University of Wisconsin, Madison became too painful to navigate. Remote learning didn’t exist then. So, the path I had dreamt of for helping others changed. I learned to help through words instead.

For a time, I tried to help in ways I thought useful. I married a man who carried emotional wounds and believed I could help him. For twelve years I offered care, understanding, and steady presence. He found relief elsewhere and our marriage ended. After that I moved closer to my mother when she battled cancer. I thought I could be the kind of help she needed. What she truly cherished was the presence of her children — my practical aid mattered less than our companionship.

In July 2001 I married again, this time to a man who needed a lot of medical care. His kidneys failed and he began dialysis every other day for six-hour stretches. His life and mine were both heavy with need. I reached for comfort in the bottle more than I’d like to admit. I thought I was helping; perhaps I was avoiding handing our burdens to God the way I should have. One day, after I left at his request, he stopped treatments, and he died. I have prayed for forgiveness for the times I failed him — for the times I thought my presence alone could carry what neither of us could bear.

Later, while caring for an elderly woman and the man who had asked me to help, I endured six years of physical, financial and emotional abuse. I could not leave: no phone, no vehicle, no money and threats against my family. The sheriff finally rescued me from the emergency room, and in that bleak season I remember crying out to Jesus. He was there, watching and holding me even when I could not see a way out. The broken bones have healed, the hearing aids replace my damaged ear drums, and dentures replace the smile I once had.; I'm back to 'normal'.

Today I still live with pain. But I have handed it to the Lord. I have forgiven those who hurt me, and I have asked God to take what I cannot fix. I know I have forgiven and handed it to God, because I don't cry anymore when I talk about it.

Writing became the way I speak what God says to me — not to wag a finger or shame anyone, but to speak truth into my own heart and, perhaps, into yours. I write to examine myself, to offer what God has done in the broken places, and to point to the One who makes something out of nothing.

God is in the business of taking what seems useless and making it beautiful. I pray He does that with my life.

Thank you for reading! Please share if you feel this could help someone. This blog exists to bring biblical clarity to the stories shaping our world. If you’ve been encouraged, share this post with someone who needs truth and hope today. Together, let’s stand firm in Christ—where faith meets the front page. These are my thoughts. What are yours?

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