Everyone suffers.
I don’t think anyone would argue with that statement.
We might argue with with how much someone suffers — whether someone’s suffering is worse than another person’s … or ours. We might argue with the wrongness or rightness of the suffering. But no one get’s a bye on suffering.
The question then becomes suffering plus what allows us to learn from that which hurts? That which takes our normal life and cause it to become something unrecognizable … something unwanted … and yet, something undeniably ours.
Author Anne Morrow Lindbergh states that for us to learn from our suffering we must add mourning and understanding and patience and love and openness and vulnerability. But isn’t vulnerability the catalyst that allows us to mourn? To understand? To be patient in the face of suffering? To love? To open ourselves up to others … and to the full range of our emotions as we walk an unexpected, unwanted bend in our life road?
Unless we’re brave enough to be vulnerable in the face of our challenges, our heartaches, how can we learn anything from them? Our suffering is wasted … nothing more than pain. But when we become someone who can mourn honestly … or someone who understands not just ourselves but others better … if we are more patient with others who struggle … if we risk loving out loud then, and only then, have we gleaned the wisdom from the suffering.
In Your Words: How has suffering made you wise? How have you allowed yourself to learn from suffering?
[ctt template=”8″ link=”TBa55″ via=”yes” ]In Others\’ Words: What Suffering Requires http://wp.me/p63waO-2ra #quotes #suffering [/ctt] [ctt template=”8″ link=”bJzo5″ via=”yes” ]\”I do not believe that sheer suffering teaches ….\” http://wp.me/p63waO-2ra #quote #AnneMorrowLindbergh [/ctt]
Comments 6
What a deep question! I can only give a short thought; everything hurts too much.
1) Suffering can bring wisdom, but only through the eyes of compassion that see that someone else is hurting worse. We have to compare, and know that, as Shakespeare said (I think in Richard III) that if we can say, “This is the worst”, it is not yet the worst.
2) There is a tipping point; I thought I was becoming wise, but now I simply angry, and determined to fight this out on an elemental level. I’ve been told that letting go is the hardest lesson, but I am so far beyond that point that I bless the day that brains were being handed out in Heaven, when I was off drinking with my mates. Letting go may be the advanced lesson, but I’m too dumb for it. Letting go is supposed to be a grace (check out Amy Grant’s song, “Better Than A Hallelujah”), but for me, no way. I’m just kicking butt on principle, because the struggle has devolved to a Neanderthal contest of brutality.
3) The development of wisdom through suffering requires community; in spite of all the above, I am considered wise and have been told that my writing shines more brightly with each passing day. It’s not me; it’s the community I still try to serve, that deserves my very best, even when the words are squeezed out of solid granite, lubricated by blood.
And that’s all I can say.
Author
Andrew, I confess that I thought of you as I wrote this blog post.
And here’s the thing, my friend: You have chosen to be vulnerable in the face of your suffering. You are honest. You love others by sharing your story with others and offering them the lessons you’ve learned along the way — woven through with humor and compassion for others. You are wise. You still consider others more important than yourself. And yes, community makes a difference. Suffering in isolation magnifies the struggle, the hurt … and you choose to serve the community that you care for even in the face of your suffering. It is just who you are.
Suffering is such a raw, accusing word, isn’t it? And I would add “brave” to the list of adjectives that describe you, Andrew. Sharing your pain also opens you up to those who want to help, want to make it better, want to cure you, yet shuns you when 1) it doesn’t work, or 2) you won’t try or have already tried it and didn’t work. Those who stick around will never truly understand either. Only Christ can truly understand the depth of your suffering.
That’s why it takes courage to share your pain, risk rejection, and show how our world has become brighter, sharper, harder, and somehow more beautiful because of the daily limitations that suffering requires, even if we watch it pass by our window. Suffering may require our life but, as Anne Morrow Lindburgh said, it’s wasted unless it’s shared. And it takes a certain bravado to do that.
Author
Angie:
Yes, yes. Suffering is a raw, accusing word. And, if we let it, suffering isolates us. From others. From God — even from our true selves. This is why we need to be vulnerable. Why we need community. Why we need that “certain bravado” you speak of to share our suffering with others.
This may seem a cop-out, but for me, physical suffering is the easiest level to respond to and has taught me much. My first pacemaker surgery was to date maybe the most painful and at least 1.5 hr. experience I have endured. Because they could not suppress my heart’s 16 beats per minute then, I was only mildly sedated and felt it all but knew they were trying to help me. I’ve had six pacemaker surgeries now, none matching the first for pain, but each time the experience gave me my life back with new opportunities, confidence, and a sense of divine purpose. That suffering has been an unexpected platform to enlarge my life, and I am very grateful.
Author
Dee: I had to smile as I read your first words, because the term “cop-out” is one I would never apply to you. EVER.
Your pacemaker surgery is so symbolic of who you are … you open yourself up to the experiences in your life. You open yourself to others. And you are always, always seeking God in the circumstances. And gratefulness? That is woven through your entire being, too.
But all of this speaks of vulnerability. And understanding. And even patience with your body. And yes, you are wise because of all this (and for other reasons, too).