If you carry deep pain – death of a friend or family member, betrayal, divorce, etc. – and are trying to understand what to do with it, then this is written for you.  I write not because I have insightful answers or a developed academic understanding of pain and proper stewardship of it.  I write because I am working hard to figure out stewardship of the pain in my life and I’d like to understand what you’ve learned.  I’d like to explore how we might help and encourage each other as we both move forward.  

Regardless of how the pain entered our lives, it is with us.  Pain is now a part of us.  A permanent part of us, I believe.  As much a part of us as the nose on our face.  Therefore, it seems to me, we have to think hard about what to do with this pain.  Can we learn to be good stewards of our pain?   

I’ve observed that pain can; overwhelm people, destroy lives and relationships, block progress and growth, prevent joy, cloud hope, and multiply.  But I’ve also observed that pain has the potential to forge; expanded perspective, deeper empathy, appropriate humility, clearer understanding, enhanced sensitivity, and more capacity for effective service.  What pain ultimately accomplishes – good or bad – is essentially up to us.  Putting pain in it’s proper place and potentially putting pain to some productive use is ultimately our responsibility, whether we like it or not.  

While it is our responsibility to steward our pain, I’ve learned that it is impossible to effectively steward pain in isolation.  If there is any hope of properly stewarding pain we must have good people around us that are willing and able to assist.  It can’t be done alone.  

So, I’d like you to know that I’m available to join you in your work of learning to be a good steward of your pain and I’d love for you to join me in mine.  If you think this might be helpful for you I encourage you to email me to initiate discussion. My email is provided below. Pass it along to anyone you think may be interested.

Before our first discussion, it might be helpful for me to explain how I’ve come to think about stewardship of pain.  It is a complicated topic and I’m a simple person.  Metaphors, analogies, and visual representations help me get my head around complex things. Below is the metaphor I developed to help myself visualize and think about stewardship of pain . . . 

Imagine approaching what was once your charming and stylish house.  You adored every detail and dutifully cared for each part of this special place.  You felt immense pride in the house and all it represented for you.  The house gave you so much, and you happily gave back – eagerly investing in the perfect place that you loved.  And now, your beautiful house is completely destroyed.  Burned to the ground by an unimaginable and devastating fire.  

You progress toward the piles of rubble, not walking, but shuffling.  Barely able to put one foot in front of the other.  Is this how loss forever feels?  Like every cell in your body weights 100 pounds? The heaviness seems to increase with each shuffling step and the fog of grief surrounding you thickens.  Nobody ever told you how overwhelming and how physical grief could be.  

Slowly, you push yourself forward and navigate through what used to be the kitchen.  It strikes you that if ever there was a picture of total devastation and complete destruction this is it.  There is nothing but pain in every inch of what just yesterday was a place of beauty, hope, joy, and promise.  As you climb over burned cabinets, broken dishes, and melted plastic cups the questions come.  How could this happen? What now?  Distraught by the evil you are walking through and realizing it impossible to answer the questions flooding your foggy, numb brain you bend over, put your hands on your knees, and begin to sob uncontrollably.  

You’ve cried before, but never sobbed.  Not like this.  Is sobbing going to be how you cry from now on – now that you’ve lost everything?  After several minutes, the tears slow and the quivering chest and shaky shoulders begin to still.  You wipe the tears from your face and turn to leave.  You’ve seen enough.  There is nothing here anymore.  You don’t ever need to be here again.  You couldn’t bear to be here ever again. 

But as you turn towards the street a bit of color catches the corner of your eye.  Everything is burned to black.  The little bit of color stands out like a lighthouse in a sea of charred and broken dreams.  You move toward it.  Gently, you push the rubble away and lift the object out of it.  Your breath catches in your chest and you freeze.  You stare silently in disbelief at what you hold in your hands.  Somehow the painting in the dining room survived the fire.  You remove your jacket and carefully use it to brush the ash off the painting.  The painting has damage, but it survived.  The painting is all that remains from this once perfect place.  And you almost missed it and left without it.

You didn’t expect to leave here with anything but despair.  But now you have the painting.  It’s something.  So you grasp the painting tightly as you move towards your car.  You open the passenger door, tenderly set the painting on the seat, and secure it by gently fastening the seatbelt.  You carefully close the door, shuffle around to the driver’s side and sink into the seat.  Before starting the engine you glance at the painting strapped awkwardly in the seatbelt next to you.  It’s all that is left from the life you once knew, the singular connection to the house you once loved.  You pulled something good from the heap of ashes – and you silently resolve to always treasure it.  

The destroyed home represents the pain in life.  The found painting represents two things.  First, the painting represents the beauty, joy, and good that still exists in the world and that you can experience while you carry your pain – if you carry it properly.  Second,  the painting represents the personal growth and improvement pain can potentially initiate and forge in us.  It is not a perfect metaphor, but it has been helpful for me. 

Does the pain make the personal growth worthwhile?  Not the pain I’ve experienced, not even close.   Did the pain happen for a reason, so I can improve?  Absolutely not.  People say these things, but I think they’re ridiculous and reckless.  Nothing can make the loss of a loved one, the betrayal of vows, the destruction of a marriage worth a bit of personal growth and improvement. 

But the things that caused the pain have happened.  The pain exists.  The pain is real and it is not going away.  Your loved one is dead, your marriage is over, your opportunity is lost – whatever it is, it’s real and it’s here to stay.  So now what? Is this going to be the end of it?  Is this awful pain going to be allowed to continue to destroy everything in its path?  Are you going to facilitate pain’s expansion by your response to it?  Or are you going to try your very best to find something good, helpful, and productive in the smoldering rubble?  Can you position yourself to still gratefully experience joy, beauty, and happiness even while you carry your pain?  Are you going to spot the color in the charred remains, lift up the painting, dust off the ash, and treasure it because its all that is left that holds potential for good in the piles of pain?  That is what I’m trying to do.  It’s not easy.  And if you’re attempting something similar I’d love to lock arms, learn from you, and help if I can.

Brad Haverkamp – brad.w.haverkamp@gmail.com