I didn’t have to look at the clock to know what it said, but I looked anyway. Two-thirty-six a.m. I know what that part of the night feels like; it’s not a new phenomenon. I’ve had nightly waking pain for the better part of eleven years.
I creep out of bed, walk in a stooped position to the kitchen where I begin a finely honed process of pain management. I press start on the microwave. The heating pad was placed there before I went to bed, the two minutes already dialed in. In the living room, I position the pillows on the couch in a very specific way that allows me to sit up straight with my legs extended. A neck pillow sits on the back of the couch. While the heating pad warms, I turn on the sound machine. From 2:40 a.m. until about 6 o’clock, I’ll sit straight up on the couch and pray for sleep. In slips and snatches, I’ll grab little pieces of rest, sometimes. Other times, the pain in my spine sings too loudly, burns too hotly, aches too persistently. The stiffness sets in by 4 a.m., and like a morning fog, it takes a few hours to burn off. By 6 a.m., the coffee is brewing, and I’ve given up any pretense of sleep. I swap the heating pad for an ice pack and settle in for some bleary-eyed Bible reading and coffee-sipping, praying that one of those things will make me feel human again. Already, I dread bedtime because I will start the whole process over again. I’d do anything for sleep, but life with a chronic pain disease doesn’t make much room for sleep.
Last fall, I contracted an infection that vaulted my disease into a full-throttle flare I’ve been unable to control. While I tick down days on the calendar until the appointment when I can sit down with my rheumatologist and discuss a new treatment plan, I am learning again to function on only a couple hours of sleep at night. After I was initially diagnosed and found remission, I used to vow I’d never let myself get back to pre-diagnosis pain again—as if I could control something like that. If you were to meet me in person, you’d think I am perfectly healthy. You can’t see my disease yet, though its progression will eventually manifest itself. I won’t die from it, but I will die with it.
The nightly pain and crushing fatigue have made it difficult to think, difficult to write, difficult to pray, difficult not to spiral down into the depths of internal despair. I forget words and lose my train of thought, but worse than that—I have to fight a lot of doubt and mental darkness. The persistence of pain and the loss of sleep slowly chip away at logical thinking, and in the middle of the night I find myself wondering why the Lord won’t remove this excruciatingly painful thorn from my worn down, exhausted flesh. At 2:36 a.m., pain translates to judgment. Fatigue means lack of love. Brain fog and headaches must mean condemnation. I spiral lower and lower as the nights wear down my faith and my body with crushing persistence.
The apostle Paul wrote, “Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me” (2 Cor. 12:9). Sometimes I think Paul was crazy for rejoicing in his thorn. It must have been a different kind of thorn, I decide when the heating pad, the pillows, the medication, the praying, and the pleading don’t work. It couldn’t have hurt this much. But, who am I to judge what I do not know? Paul begged for the Lord’s deliverance, and the Lord said no. We don’t beg if it’s not that big of a thorn.
This morning, I tried sitting in a hard-backed chair for relief, looking at the cover of my Bible on the kitchen table for a few moments before opening it. God uses weakness, pain, thorns to perfect His power, to put it on display. He doesn’t always remove the thorn when we ask because He has purpose in its presence. I know this well. It’s a lesson I learn over and over again. If not for the pain burning in my body, would I call on Him this much? If not for the wakefulness, would I say His name each night? Would I be thinking at all about how He loves me in saying no? Would I know His name as a shelter, a wing, a refuge, a place to rest when rest isn’t an earthly reality?
God uses all sorts of things to sanctify us—His Word, prayer, the church, relationships, work, and yes, even pain. He prunes and prunes, lopping off what isn’t needful so that there is room for what is. In the night when I fear pain is a punishment, I remember that He only sanctifies His children. He doesn’t prune what is destined for fire. Pruning is proof of His love for me. But sometimes, I look at the way He prunes me and the way He prunes others, and I wonder why He does what He does.
Chronic illness is a painful pruning. I don’t know why the Lord uses these shears, nor why His tools must be so sharp. But the question can’t be “Why are His tools of sanctification so sharp?” The question must be “Do I trust the hands that hold the tools?” That’s it, really. Do I trust the hands that do the pruning? Do I trust the Lord with what He deems to be my thorn? If He permits it, then it must have purpose. He doesn’t waste anything. I know what the answer is, what it must be.
I don’t know why the tools are so sharp, but I know the shape and contours of the hands that hold them. Years of feeding on His words have taught me that they are good hands, strong hands, careful hands, compassionate hands, saving hands. I also know His hands bear their own scars. One day, I will stand before Him fully healed, but He’ll still have scars. It’s by those scars I have been healed from sin, and it’s by those scars I will be healed from pain. When I see Him face-to-face, this thorn will finally make sense, as will His painful pruning.
His tools may be sharp, but His hands are good.
I don’t know why the Lord uses these shears, nor why His tools must be so sharp. Share on X
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.