My youngest son walked at 10 months. So many times it seemed like his feet got ahead of his brain. He didn’t have a steady concept of height, heat, or danger. Out of my two boys, he landed in the ER about twice as often. Pain is how he learned many of his lessons.

I had coffee with a new friend today. The conversation turned to God’s protection. I mentioned how I’ve experienced an increasing amount of pain in my life throughout the last year on many, many levels. I felt like God abandoned me, that he didn’t see my struggle, that he didn’t try to protect me from the pain.

Today, my friend offered wisdom that struck deep:

“What if God’s way of protecting you was allowing you to experience the pain?”

I stared at my mocha, taking in this new concept.

I could have scooped my son up every time he darted towards the stairs. I could have kept him on the same floor his whole life. I could have carried him every time we went up or down. But he wanted to climb. And often, when he climbed, he fell.

Ultimately, falling is what taught him to climb and to gain strength.

Sometimes God’s way of getting us to move on from stagnant, harmful, or destructive places or patterns is to allow us to experience pain. Pain is almost always the thing that convinces us to change what we are doing. If what we are doing feels good and comfortable, we’ll probably stay there.

There is something about pain that protects, corrects, and redirects.

Pain is what reminds me that something still isn’t right. Pain reminds me that something still needs to be resolved. Pain reminds me that I need to keep making progress.

I mentioned in my last post that I’m mad that I can’t have a prettier story. I’m still mad about that – sort of. I’m coming to grips with it. I am frustrated by the process and by the pain, but I’m trying to learn what the pain is teaching me. I am learning to be kind to myself in the process, to give myself days that I can grieve and think and not feel bad that there are dirty dishes and piles of laundry.

I’m learning not to hate the pain.

I’m banking on the fact that God still loves me and that He sees me. And I’m begging him to keep transforming the pain into a story that is worth telling. I still believe in redemption. I believe that my pain has a purpose. I believe it won’t always be like this. I believe that there is solid ground to be found. And I believe that some day, when I’m done tumbling down the stairs, I’ll learn to climb again.