The Suffering Table

God has repeatedly brought a verse to mind over the last few weeks.

He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief, and as one from whom men hide their faces He was despised, and we esteemed Him not.

Isaiah 53:3

My husband, Chris, and I have been married for over 13 years. He knows me fairly well at this point. And a few days ago, the kids were tucked away (aka- buckled into the van waiting on us, but thus unable to interrupt- ha!), he grabbed my hands and asked what was going on in my mind.

Some of it was obvious. I’m not usually a quiet person around Chris. I frequently talk more than his ears bargained for.

CJ’s surgery is rooting out some of my deepest fears. What if he isn’t ok? His needs are already excessive. Am I strong enough to care for him if his list of needs becomes exponentially longer? Can I physically lift him much longer? How is my stress affecting the kids?

Chris smirked gently, “And what else? Because all of that is obvious.”

The funny thing about trauma is that it loves to hold hands with other traumas.

So when one rears its ugly head, it’s likely to drag to the surface a long chain of his friends.

Adults parenting adopted children with significant special needs live with a lot of trauma- wounds that belong to their child and wounds that are created on the battlefield of raising them. These are ongoing, just as parenting is.

When I look back over my life both before and after adoption, I see a large collection of pains. Those are rubbing up against the stress of a major upcoming surgery. And my nervous system is responding in sync.

I sat with my pastor a few weeks ago. He is a man with much wisdom and I am eternally grateful for the pastoral care he has given to my family, and me, in our darkest seasons.

He told me he wanted to say something gently, so I braced to be called out on some serious sin in a blind spot of my life. But instead he leaned forward and said, “I don’t know why, but God has seen fit to mark your life with significant suffering.”

I’ve tumbled those words around in my mind for a couple of weeks. Firstly, to decide if I agreed with him, and secondly to decide what to do with it if it was indeed true.

I know the man to be one of truth, and he has knelt on the floor in prayer as some of the darkest pains tumbled out of my mouth. So I decided to consider what to do, again, with this concept of suffering that seems to continuously appear.

It isn’t a new concept for me. In fact, it is a common topic for my best friend and I, who has taught me how to tie a rope around our waists and dive into the pit, hoping to help pull others out. Not to mention that trauma is a topic I discuss frequently after years of studying it while trying to survive its effects in our home.

But this week kept slamming me into the rocks, like waves against a cliff.

New pains were added onto old. Memories of past wrongs rubbed against the fresh fears of tomorrow. Anniversaries of some of my deepest griefs and questions will overlap with our hospital stay next week.

It is weeks like this that I find myself thankful for the theology of suffering.

Without even realizing it, we position ourselves on our knees, bowing to comfort over hardship- even hardship intentionally placed into our lives by a loving God.

As humans, our overwhelming desire is comfort. We seek it out in almost every scenario. Fasting is hard because we don’t desire the groans of an empty stomach. We overextend our budgets in an effort to make our lives easier. We sweep conflict under the rug so our emotions never rise and fall. We seek churches that preach only promises with no repentance.

We subtly change our theology to match what our lives desire- comfort.

But, though He cause grief, he will have compassion according to the abundance of His steadfast love; for He does not afflict from His heart.

Lamentations 3:32-33a

As I riffled through my own bag of memories and pains this week, I was told stories of unspeakably heinous events that happened in the life of someone close to me. And I just keep hearing the Holy Spirit whispering, “A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.” Jesus. The One in Whom rests all my hope.

I think our desire for comfort clouds our view far more than we realize. We don’t want to walk through the valley of the shadow of death, even though we are promised that He remains with us even there. (Psalm 23) We want the promise of victory without the struggle. The testimony without the test.

Sometimes we view struggles as individual events. One job layoff and then a new position. A diagnosis of cancer, treatment, and then a long, healthy life. A fight with a friend and a reconciliation. A struggle and then a victory.

We live as though we perform our act on stage and are then handed our trophy, the competition complete.

But we don’t see any examples of this in Scripture. Suffering is a companion of the Jesus follower. Sometimes the seasons of suffering overlap. Occasionally we reach mountaintops and enjoy the thrill of the climb’s victory before starting the journey again. For many people, suffering stacks on top of itself and does not end until they cross the final finish line into the arms of Jesus.

When we live only with a theology of victory, we cannot make sense of the suffering in our lives or the lives of others.

Even in the psychology and treatment of trauma, those wounds can be tended and even healed, but the events that caused them are not erased. The person is marked by them forever.

“Occasionally weep deeply over the life you hoped would be. Grieve the losses. Then wash your face. Trust God. And embrace the life you have.”

John Piper

The truth is that suffering and victory can co-exist. The existence of pain does not exclude the reality of joy.

When Chris held me in the kitchen a few nights ago, we talked about how sometimes it feels like there is a cap on the amount of happiness my life (and perhaps many, or all Christians) will allow. I experience the fulness of joy in the presence of God. His goodness cradles my every moment. But I won’t ever be completely free from all the things that have so deeply wounded and reshaped me. None of us will. It is ok for us to have days when we grieve that reality.

Jesus Himself promised we would experience trouble, but we can have peace and take heart! Because He has overcome the world. (John 16:33) Even with all the warnings the New Testament gives about troubles, we seem to think it mostly applies to others. Certainly not to us. It hurts more because instead of preparing for it, we are surprised by it.

“Our vision is so limited we can hardly imagine a love that does not show itself in protection from suffering….The love of God did not protect His own Son. The cross was the proof of His love- that He gave that Son, that He let Him go to Calvary’s cross, though “legions of angels” might have rescued Him. He will not necessarily protect us- not from anything it takes to make us like His Son. A lot of hammering and chiseling and purifying by fire will have to go into the process.”

Elisabeth Elliot

I think part of the reason we fear discomfort or suffering is because it hurts. Hurt brings grief. And grief is uncomfortable.

Sometimes I’m scared to feel the weight of the grief because I know it will be painful. But maybe we shouldn’t be afraid of this grief, or the grievous things around us, because that’s the table where Jesus sat too.

Jesus endured His own sufferings- the constant doubting and foolishness of his disciples, physical exhaustion and hunger, intimate betrayal, cruel words, and ultimately the cross.

But who is it that we usually see Jesus sitting with? The suffering.

When we see Jesus sitting amongst people, He’s sitting with the poor, the blind, the lonely, the sick and the sinners. It’s almost as if suffering both follows Him and He welcomes it in.

And I’m fascinated with myself who wants to chase the good and the emotional highs to find God. But it’s the Table of Suffering where Jesus sits and feasts.

Today, we find Him in the alleyways where men fight and fill their bodies with poison, beckoning them to everlasting love and repentance. We find Him kneeling beside the mother grieving her child’s suicide, giving her grace for one breath after another. We find Him at the bedside, holding the hand of a traumatized child giving birth to her own. We find Him physically squeezing the broken heart of the betrayed wife, forcing life to flow through her veins. We see Him cradling the orphan, promising not to let go.

So yes, we pray for suffering to end. We pray for God to do the miraculous. We want God to remove the suffering other people cause. We pray for justice to roll down like waters, and righteousness like an everflowing stream. (Amos 5:24). We ask for Him to return and right everything that is broken.

But we also ask for the courage and perseverance to endure the suffering He has ordained for us.

On this journey home, the victories might not always look like the mountaintops. True victory is being near Jesus.

And He frequently sits at the suffering table.