‘And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose’ – Romans 8:28 (NIV)
To whatever extent I’ve complained of pain before this past Tuesday, I take it back. Prior to that fateful day, I equated pain with the day I accidentally slammed my hand in my car door, as in, the door literally shut with my hand between it and the car frame. After opening the door, I raced into the house, out of earshot of my wife and young daughter, where I let loose a torrent of screaming, that as best we know, is still hanging in space over Phoenixville, Pennsylvania (thank you Jean Shepherd).
But now I would gladly let you slam my hand in a car door a hundred times before re-experiencing what happened on Tuesday, when for the first (and please god last) time I passed a kidney stone.
I hadn’t realized it, but I had probably been dealing with it for the previous three weeks. I had some back pain and other symptoms, which I chalked up to other things. But when the moment of truth arrived, as the stone left its refuge in my kidney, there was no mistaking it. On the drive to the hospital, I developed a deep appreciation for the good folks who fill in potholes as my poor wife withstood my plaintive cries for mercy. When we arrived, the triage nurse asked me what my pain level was on a scale of one to ten. I told her eleven (and yes, I was ready with the reference to This is Spinal Tap). Had she chosen to knock me out with a wooden mallet, I would have considered it a blessing.
If you think I’m being melodramatic, you’ve never had a kidney stone. For a man, it is considered the male version of childbirth. I’m not sure how passing a 3mm piece of calcified gunk compares to a woman pushing out an eight-pound baby, but many women who have had both experiences claim that passing a kidney stone is worse! Whether it is or not, you get the idea. Passing a kidney stone is sheer hell.
I have since passed the stone (it was a boy; I named it Atilla). Which enables me to now say that, despite the hell of it, and the fact that I am still recovering from both the trauma of the event and the side effects of its treatment, the experience was not without its benefits. Don’t get me wrong: I plan on doing everything in my power to ensure I never have another kidney stone again (just one example, no more spinach salads for me; apparently my ‘healthy’ practice of eating them several times a week may have been a contributing factor; the things Popeye never told us!). And I have experienced more than a few moments of frustration and exasperation. But in the midst of my harrowing ordeal, I have experienced grace, and learned at least three important lessons.
First, there were the miracles.
My time at the hospital was not fun. I had to wait a long time before the staff gave me anything for the pain. I stood (sitting or lying down was NOT an option), first in the lobby and then in my private ER room, writhing in pain, praying they would come and help me, when after two hours, in walked a friend and member of the church I serve. He had personal experience with stones and came as soon as he heard. He no sooner began to pray for me than the nurse finally walked in with the pain medication for my IV. Literally within seconds.
Later that night, after I had been sent home with painkillers and instructions to drink heavily (water that is), I continued to struggle. The super-ibuprofen didn’t kick in as quickly orally as intravenously. I was at the end of my rope, ready to reach for the Percocet, which I had been instructed to use only if all else failed and have a deep, personal aversion to (I’ve seen too many people get hooked) when, shall we say, the dam broke, and the stone passed. It was only after, when I looked at my phone, that I saw that another dear friend, who also had experience with stones, had sent me a GIF of George Bailey from It’s a Wonderful Life celebrating in front of the sign for Bedford Falls. Under the celebrating George were the words, ‘It passed!’ My friend, who had been praying, sent it as an encouragement. But it arrived simultaneously with the deluge that set me free.
I suppose you could chalk both events up to coincidence. But I believe in both the power of prayer and Christian fellowship. The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective, the Book of James tells us, and I believe my friend’s prayers were both. Also, there is something to be said in not facing things alone. God made us for community, and we stand stronger together than we do as individuals. Having good Christian friends to call on in a time of distress is a treasure of measureless worth. Many prayed for me yesterday, but I believe these two ‘God incidences,’ as Philip Yancey would say, were especially coordinated to remind me of the immense blessing of prayer and fellowship. And so, as a result of the dread Atilla, I hope to be less likely to take such things for granted.
Second, well, back to the pain again.
I’ve already described the pain as best I can. Words fail in the effort. But having gone through it, I believe I’ve learned a lesson in compassion. As a pastor, I deal with people in physical pain all the time. I don’t believe I have ever dismissed anyone’s pain, but not having experienced anything so severe, I can’t say I’ve ever fully understood it either. In a way, that was a blessing. But in another way, so is this. To whatever extent I have ever failed to consider the physical pain of another, to the extent I have responded to it with dry platitudes or dismissiveness, I repent. The word compassion literally means, ‘to suffer with.’ From now on, I will try to do a better job of entering others suffering, walking with them through it, and doing so with a greater understanding. This too then is a gift, one I pray will make me not only a better pastor, but a better person.
And third, there is the love of God.
By this, I don’t just mean that his love was with me in some theoretical sense. I mean it was with me, is always with me, in the most real sense. As I was writhing in pain, I thought of Jesus and the pain he endured on the Cross. As bad as my pain was, it was a mere drop in the bucket compared to his. Jesus felt, not only excruciating physical pain (excruciating, derived from crucifixion, is a word that was created to describe the kind of pain he experienced), but also the spiritual agony of carrying the sin of the world. How did he ever endure it? Why did he ever endure it? Romans 5:7-8 tells us, ‘Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous person, though for a good person someone might possibly dare to die…’ Let me stop there a moment. After the pain I endured, I have to say that left to my own inclinations, it would be awfully hard to volunteer for a kidney stone, let alone die on a cross, for the sake of anyone; probably not even for a good person, certainly not for someone who hurt me. But as the passage goes on to tell us, ‘…but God demonstrates his own love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.’
The God of the universe took something far worse than a kidney stone for us. Such were my thoughts as I battled Atilla. There is only one conclusion to draw from such a reality.
God REALLY loves us.
I had been struggling this Advent season before the stone. The past several years have been hard ones for my family (they’ve probably been hard for many of you as well). I was having trouble getting into the Christmas spirit. But after this stone, well, what can I say? I’ve been reminded of God’s miracles, of the power of prayer and the value of Christian brothers and sisters. I’ve learned to be more compassionate. And, best of all, I’ve been reminded why Christmas happened in the first place. ‘For God so loved the world, that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him might not perish, but have eternal life’ (John 3:16). Indeed, he loves the world so much, you and me so much, that he took far more than a kidney stone to prove his love.
Again, don’t get me wrong. I am going to pray that I never have another kidney stone again. Once in a lifetime is enough for me. I hope you never have one (or another one) either. But if you do, or if I do, I hope that it draws us even closer to the one who loved us so much that he was willing to endure far worse.
Under Christ’s Mercy,
Brent