Eight Weeks Later
It’s been a month since I last wrote to you. I would like to say I’ve been vacationing in Santorini, but in truth, Possum Kingdom is the farthest I’ve ventured from home.
It’s harder to travel with one arm than you might think.
The Ortho doc says the rotator cuff surgery was successful—and this is good news, although I am curious what he means by “successful.” I’m hoping he means the surgery and not just the insurance payment.
The therapist reports I’m making progress. No, not that therapist. That lady says I should take up day drinking. The physical therapist says I’m doing great, but let’s be clear: Great is measured in millimeters. In practical terms, my left arm can now help wash my hair but is of no help whatsoever when it comes to using the turn blinker. But then, I only use my blinkers when nobody’s around.
Now that I’m eight weeks post-op from shoulder repair, here’s my assessment: If given the choice between rotator cuff surgery and poking yourself in the eye with a sharp stick, I would at least make sure you’ve sharpened the blade on your whittling knife.
Pain is formidable.
As life unfolds, the accumulation of days affords us the opportunity to listen to pain. You’ll recall that Lewis said God whispers to us in our pleasures but shouts to us in our pains.
I have two observations regarding pain—three, now that I think about it: One, pain makes cowards of us all, and two, pain is relative. Third, Jesus understands suffering, the full spectrum of it.
Candidly, I have a modicum of pride in my endurance: physical, soulical, and spiritual.
A buddy who is now retired from the Marines says, “Preston, I love to suffer.” Someone said that pain is weakness leaving your body.
Pressfield writes, “The artist committing himself to his calling has volunteered for hell, whether he knows it or not. He will be dining for the duration on a diet of isolation, rejection, self-doubt, despair, ridicule, contempt, and humiliation.”
In a rather cryptic passage from Colossians, Paul speaks of “filling up what is lacking in Christ’s afflictions.”
To suffer physically is to be tough. To produce from the bleeding edge of creativity is to birth great art. To suffer similarly to Christ is honorable. To not suffer is to live in a hothouse, like a tomato vine, that can’t endure outside of optimal.
But in sufficient measure, pain strips away all illusion of invincibility. Afflict the human body with enough pain and even the toughest will cough up his mother’s home address. Simply deprive the body of sleep—and reason and resolve wither. Subject the soul to a series of dark nights of isolation and sanity is lost.
Pain is formidable. It isn’t possible to overcome pain that is unleashed in all its ferocity.
You and I could both agree to a physical test. Simultaneously, we could slam our fingers in the car door. We would both suffer intensely and immediately, but it would be pointless to sit at the table comparing our black fingernails debating who is hurting the worst. On a 1-10 scale of severity, we could both quantify our pain at level 10, but your 10 and my 10 are relative to us as individuals.
What’s the point?
I can compare my rotator cuff surgery to having my knees replaced, but I can’t compare my rotator cuff surgery to yours.
I have a friend who had his shoulder repaired twenty years ago. When I asked about his experience with pain, he was ambivalent. Nothing to report. No big deal. I was hoping to hear that he didn’t sleep, couldn’t hold a glass of water, or tuck in his shirt tail. Instead, I hid my shaking hand in my lap, ashamed of my weakness, and changed the subject. Saint John of the Cross didn’t title his book Dark Night of the Soul for nothing.
I reject the shame of comparison.
Comparison says either that I’m tougher than you or that I don’t have what it takes to endure hardship. Either way, comparison is a trap because pain is relative.
It is true that a dark place is a dangerous place. It is also true that a dark place is a refuge. It is true that pain makes cowards of us, but it is also true that God is a present help in time of need.
Pain is pain and how you perceive it is real. God says that in Christ he understands our suffering. While there’s no point in contrasting my pain to yours, there is every benefit to respecting pain enough to take it to Jesus for perspective and care.
Pain strips the varnish off of life, wellbeing, and theology. In sufficient measure, pain makes me honest, honest about stature, composure, and existence. This is a good thing. Pain won’t tolerate pretense. Pain makes certain my faith is forged into sincere trust rather than wrapped in religious platitudes.
I’m not writhing in agony. I’m uncomfortable. I’m not sleeping much and my perseverance is diminished. My ability to focus is jeopardized, my production level is low, and I fatigue easily.
This is a good place for this reason: I’m only able to focus on fundamentals; my soul doesn’t have much room for theory. This means I’m reviewing my essential convictions rather than taking aboard new ideas. In naval jargon, I’m adding to my ballast.
My shoulder will heal. Once my range of motion returns, pain will slip away and I’ll be left with what these days stitched into the fabric of my soul. I’m eight weeks along. “Lord God, weave a tapestry please, not a cross-stitch. Amen.”
I reject the shame of comparison and resist the distraction of pervasive pain. That I am not enough isn’t a news flash. It is a declaration of humanity, affirmation of my need for the Spirit, and visceral hope that I will reach for His hand in the dark of night when the world sleeps and I pace.
From where I am to where you are, don’t rush from pain. Own it. Treasure its mentoring. Respect it, but spit in its eye. After all, pain may own the night, but we own tomorrow.
What does this look like?
I walk in the dark. I sing in the shower. I dance in the kitchen. I labor long hours and I’m tired. I capture basic Bible and marinate in its truth until I am permeated. I honor the intensity of this slice of time. I sleep when it comes over me, disperse worry when rest evades me, and relish the quiet cloister of morning’s wee hours.
In “The Day is Done,” Longfellow asked for poetry to be read to him, “Not from the grand masters, / Not from the bards sublime.” Rather, he asked,
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
I pray Father’s blessings on you. Thank you for your patience as I continue gathering my bearings.
A young woman at our church asked about my recovery. I gave her my report and told her that when I am finished with physical therapy I will look like Tom Selleck.
She looked quizzical, “I don’t know who that is.”
Adjusting, I said, “My physical therapist tells me when I’m fully rehabilitated I’ll look like Tom Cruise.”
Her eyebrows raised, “No. You won’t.”
Sincerely, she asked, “What’s next in your recovery?”
“You know, I’m not sure what the therapist has in mind. But for me, my next goal is to reach the turn blinker on my truck.”