“Who am I without my thorn?” I asked myself.
The needle on the spring-loaded pen was much smaller than I expected. I pinched my skin together and injected my third dose of TNF-blockers into my stomach. For six weeks, I’d been giving myself shots prescribed by my rheumatologist, and I’d watched—incredulous—as my pain levels gradually decreased to nearly nothing. After thirteen years of debilitating chronic pain, especially at night, I was finding long stretches of painless sleep. I’m four months into treatment now, and it has been…wonderful.
I’ll be frank, it’s kind of hard for me to admit that I’ve turned to such a heavy-duty medication. I’ve staunchly avoided this path of treatment since my diagnosis of non-radiographic axial spondyloarthritis more than eight years ago. But when I say I’ve tried every natural course of treatment, believe me, I have. I got an email from a blog reader just this week recommending a handful of supplements and tinctures. I smiled when I read the list because I’ve either tried them all or am currently taking them. It was out of sheer desperation that I began jamming a needle of immune suppressing drugs in my stomach every other Tuesday. I know the risks.* But I also know that my quality of life has been on a downward spiral with such high amounts of pain and such poor, disrupted sleep for so many years. Nothing else has worked. I am, my doctor informed me, at triple the risk for heart attack, stroke, and cancer if I continue living in such chronic flareups.
I’ve been honest about my health struggles in all my writing over the past ten years. I write about suffering a lot because my body has experienced such copious amounts of ongoing pain. This has been one of my “thorns of the flesh,” as Paul describes it in 2 Corinthians 12. Chronic pain has been the thing that has kept me up praying through clenched teeth in the middle of the night. It has made me question God’s love for me. It has made me tear down and rebuild my theology of suffering. It has sent me to my Bible for proof that suffering does not mean abandonment or punishment. Chronic pain has kept me near the Lord’s side in desperation for such a long time. And it has grown me. Built up my faith. Deepened my trust in the Lord’s presence and love for me. In a way, suffering has kept me close to Jesus.
But that doesn’t mean that I want to feel physical pain. The disease that radiates pain through my body is a result of the fall. I know without a doubt that when Jesus returns and our bodies are raised to new life, I will enjoy a resurrected physical body with zero pain. I cannot even grasp what that will be like.
Like those of you with ongoing health problems, terminal diagnoses, and chronic conditions—I have long prayed for healing. One of my pastors always prays for healing when we ask for it. He says that God always heals and it’s in one of three ways: through supernatural healing, through the common grace of medicine, or in heaven. It is up to God to decide which way is right for us. But that doesn’t mean we don’t pray for healing! James 5:14 tells us that if we are sick, we should call for the elders of the church to pray for us. And so I’ve done on many occasions. I’ve wept in the pews, begging for prayer, and I’ve sat with the hands of my church family on me as they interceded on my behalf.
I just didn’t expect the common grace medicine route to be the answer. I have been so surprised by the release of pain. A friend from church texted me recently to ask how I was feeling. “This is changing my life,” I told her. She rejoiced with me and told me that God had used my suffering to encourage her.
So, then I thought again, “Who am I without my thorn?” Who am I when the physical pain is gone? How will I stay close to Jesus? What will God use in my life to grow my faith and point others to Him? I don’t want the pain, but who am I without it?
I don’t rightly know the answer. I do know that when the flu descended upon our house last week and I had to skip my next dose of medication so my immune system could fight for me, my pain returned. I guess the thorn will be there just below the surface. But, the thing is, my suffering is not my identity. And I think I’ve long identified with it. “I have an incurable disease. I am my incurable disease.” But that’s not true. I am a person who suffers. But—I am more than that because my life is hidden with Christ. My identity is that I belong to Him. I am His. The things that plague me in this life are merely thorns. They are, as Paul tells us, temporary. They will be gloriously absent when I am raised with the rest of the dead in Christ one day.
Our thorns are preparing us for heaven.
I remember when I sat down for an hour-long appointment with my rheumatologist last fall. He looked at me after forty minutes of health history and said, “That is a lot.” Tears formed in my eyes, and I whispered, “My whole life revolves around mitigating pain.” And I wasn’t lying. Days and nights were spent in this position or that, on ice or heat, with these meds or those, trying this supplement or that cleanse.
But somehow my pain is preparing me for heaven: “So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light, momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison” (2 Cor. 4:16-17).
The work God has done through pain won’t be lost. He has used it to renew my “inner self” as He has sanctified me. If the pain comes to an end this side of heaven, even temporarily, I can trust that He will finish His sanctifying work in me. He will continue to prepare me for heaven through other means. I may discover another thorn or simply feel the prick of the old one from time to time, but God will continue to loosen my grips from this world and plant my heart in the next one. Nothing like pain has made me long for that new and coming kingdom.
Who am I without this long-felt thorn? I am still the person God is renewing day by day, sanding down and shaping and molding to be more like Jesus. I’m still His.
Nothing like pain has made me long for that new and coming kingdom. Share on X
*Whenever I write candidly about my health, I get a flurry of emails from concerned readers with advice. I know it’s hard, but please resist the urge to do this. I’m not sure anyone has researched my disease the way I have. I am fully aware of risks, treatment options, and statistics. I know people send recommendations because they care, which is so very kind. But at this point, my treatment plan is one carefully designed and decided upon by my doctor and me. I appreciate you showing me grace here, my friends.
This article originally appeared in the February 2024 edition of my monthly newsletter, “Off the Record.”
Photo by Diana Polekhina on Unsplash
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.
