A few extremely difficult spots in my life comprise my testimony, and certain shared difficulties with my wife add nuance. I'm working on collecting my thoughts to accurately convey all that God has done in my life. Perhaps that's what these meditations are for. At a minimum, they'll help me gather the details into a cohesive story. Nonetheless, I write these meditations because in the wake of those life-altering changes and challenges, I have strived to understand how to integrate these things into my life in a way that I can make sense of the suffering. I think what I really want to know is if all this pain and suffering can strengthen both me and others. I wonder if we're all just trying to figure out how our stories intertwine.

When something life-changing, or really difficult happens in our lives, we have an opportunity in front of us to wipe the slate clean. We can treat it as a moment where we shed our old skin and grow new skin. Sometimes, in the presence of challenges, it can feel tempting to go the other way. To pull back and hide away. Internalizing pain and suffering — suppressing the opportunity to integrate it into our lives — can feel right in the moment. That pain and suffering is raw and it's real. Reflecting on it can act as salt to the wound instead of healing it.

I pushed my pain and suffering inside for a while. I was embarrassed about the self-inflicted wounds I had caused myself. I didn't think people would understand, and I thought people would pile on insult to injury. There was real suffering and mental anguish that led up to the choices I made that caused me to languish. Those choices felt right at the time. They helped me escape the real mental struggles I was facing. Sadly, those same choices that were my escape caused a new kind of hell for me, and caused a life-change in me that was significantly worse than the thing I was trying to avoid. Indeed, that, I suppose, is the irony. In an effort to avoid struggles and suffering, a new suffering is borne of it.

The story doesn't end there, thankfully. Finding meaning in pain and suffering isn't intentionally or arbitrarily assigning value to that pain and suffering. It's a serious introspection on the things that caused you suffering. It's taking the circumstances, the actions, people, places, times, and everything else in those moments of pain and reflecting on the story that you can tell others about it. There is most definitely a story. When those things are happening to you, you feel like you're alone in it. The truth is that your pain and your suffering are aligned with so many more people than you realize. Integrating that suffering into your life isn't about erasing it. It's about figuring out how you can take that story that has been woven into your life and helping others make sense of their circumstances. Many people are still in theirs. If you escaped yours, and you are on the other side of it, congratulations! You have a story to tell.

That story might be what pushes people to hope for a better day. It might be all it takes to give someone the strength to persevere for another tomorrow. Your story has value, not simply because it's relatable, but because it unifies you with other people that need to know they're not alone. Presence is way more valuable than you might think. Listening from a place of understanding has real power. A struggling brother or sister knowing that someone understands and is actively listening is strengthened just by knowing someone gets them. Your meaning of your story doesn't have to be grandiose, and it certainly doesn't have to be the next motivational, self-help book on the shelves. But, in order for your story to have impact, you have to be vulnerable.

Vulnerability is power over your circumstances. It gives you agency over the suffering and pain that you went through. In the moments of vulnerability where you share in the suffering of others, and you tell people, "I get you," you tell people that:

Yes, vulnerability is an incredibly powerful tool — and I encourage you to look at it as a tool. Hiding your pain and suffering is usually a result of one of those five things above. You feel your circumstances are final, or you're ashamed, or that pain and suffering are unique to you, or that no one understands your particular flavor of pain, or that your pain and suffering are too different, too dark, twisted, or deep to make sense of.

Dear reader, I want you to know that none of those things are true. If you're feeling that way, I don't want to preach to you. Those feelings are real, and you're at war with yourself. But, don't make the mistake of seeing these things as strictly chemical imbalances and misfiring neurons. No, you're at war with evil, with an enemy that is spiritual. He has convinced you that you are irreparable, you are a failure, or that you're too different for someone to understand. That's how he works — through isolation. He wants you alone, silent, ashamed, and defeated. He knows that it is in those places that he can destroy your life.

So, how do you defeat that enemy? It really does start with extreme vulnerability. Open up to a trusted friend, or loved one. If that's not safe, open up to a therapist. You must learn to integrate this pain and suffering in your life into a story that you own. Integrating pain and suffering doesn't mean that the pain and suffering disappears. I think that's where many people get that wrong. They think that pain and suffering should be wiped away from the slate, and erased from the record. Friend, let me tell you this. Pain and suffering, integrated correctly, become a scar that people ask you about. It's a deep empathy that says to those around you, "I've been there, too." It becomes a medallion around our neck, a trophy on the shelf, or a piece of artwork on the wall that visitors ask about. Conversely, poorly integrated pain and suffering become battle armor hiding in the deepest, darkest corners of our closet, buried under mounds of other things we'd rather people see first.

Finally, friends, I want you to understand that integrating pain and suffering into our lives and making sense of it always involves forgiveness. Maybe your pain and suffering weren't self-inflicted like mine. Maybe it was inflicted by someone else. I'll never forget the day that I forgave myself. It was 2024, and I was sitting outside with a trusted friend. We were talking about the pain that I had caused myself. I was still talking about it with anger and self-loathing. I was so mad at myself. I broke my body and left it with permanent consequences. My eyesight was never coming back, and I had scotomas in both of my eyes.

Then, my friend asked me to pray that I could forgive myself. We were sitting outside. The weather was fresh. It must have been autumn because it was comfortable. Outside, I closed my eyes. I prayed to God with anger on my lips. I was so full of hate for myself. For two years, my entire existence had been focused on punishing myself for the sins of the past. I had done a pretty good job of it, too. I lost 90 lbs through starvation dieting, punishing exercise — jump rope, running — extreme intermittent fasting, and ruthless self-talk in the mirror. Then, God gave me a vision. It was nine- or ten-year-old me. Only, I was looking down at him, and he was looking up at me. It was that look that, if you're a parent, you understand. That feeling of remorse that children show when they're sorry for what they've done. He was looking at me asking for approval, love, acceptance, and forgiveness.

I wept.

As I'm sitting here recalling that day, I have tears in my eyes. That vision was so vivid. I'm familiar with that look in a child's eyes. I have children of my own. Children want gentleness when they've done something wrong, and they want to know that everything is going to be okay. That's my approach in parenting. I have an incredible amount of patience with my kids. It puzzled me, then, why I couldn't show that to myself.

So I chose to. From that day forward, and with my friend there, I chose to forgive myself. I forgave myself in the deepest way — so deeply that I now understand why my heart was broken when I was avoiding hardship and suppressing it in unhealthy ways. The integration is complete. The slate was wiped. Not clean — not like it never happened — but clear enough to write something new. The things that I have done to myself are part of my story. In fact, I can tell you that I fully love the brokenness of my body because it is through that brokenness that I can lead by example to others that are also broken. I'm still broken, but I can navigate it in healthier ways. I navigate it through a lens of understanding, gentleness, and forgiveness. I don't always get it right, and I won't pretend that I will.

The most important truth that I can tell you today is that you don't need to wait for forgiveness. You don't need to wait to forgive others. We have a savior in Christ who led the way for us. He wants you to know that His strength is perfected in your weakness. He died for you and me, and forgave you and me while we were still sinners. You are forgiven! If you're still living in the shadow of your shame, or you're not sure how to integrate your suffering into your life, start with extreme vulnerability. Open up to a trusted friend or therapist. Begin the healing journey so you can forgive yourself or others. Jesus loved you enough to forgive you. Now, you just need to follow Christ's example and take the first step.

That's the blank slate. It was never about erasing the board until it's perfect. Look at any chalkboard that's been wiped down — you can still see the ghost of what was written there. The words are faded, but the residue remains. Shame, embarrassment, hate, anger, suppression, hiding — they leave marks. Forgiveness doesn't pretend those words were never written. It clears the surface so you can write something new. The dust of what was is still there. That's your story. And that story, friend, is worth telling.