Life as I knew it, as the six of us knew it, thoroughly changed about three years ago. My mom was diagnosed with tongue cancer, and six months later, she was dead. We are still unpacking what happened. When people ask how we are, and we choose to give an honest answer, it’s partly entertaining, partly painful to see their reaction. “Really?” they ask with surprise. “I had no idea you were still dealing with after effects.”
Oh, if they only knew.
One of the things that is different for us is that we bought a tent sauna and a cold plunge and set them up in our backyard. It’s a long story that includes some dear friends and Latvian sauna and plunge experiences. The result was a desire to prioritize the health and mental benefits of hot and cold shock therapy on a regular basis. Greg and I sauna and cold plunge as often as we can, ideally a few times a week. The kids go to bed, and we get an hour or so together, sweating and shivering together. It is hands down one of my favorite times of the week.
I’m not writing this to debate the benefits of shock therapy. Though I could tell you I am now pain-free in my neck and shoulders for the first time in 20 years, my inflammation of my gums is reduced, my mood is greatly improved, my immune system is stronger, and I sleep better. I could tell you about the long-term health benefits associated with heat and cold shock. If you’re interested in learning some more, do your own research (I recommend Dr. Peter Attia as a place to start).
I share this because even knowing all the benefits, when I exit the sauna, my body steaming from the heat, and tiptoe to the cold plunge on the deck, a part of me always resists. It reminds me of how cold 41 degrees Fahrenheit feels, and how it will hurt. When I’ve had a harder day, this part is even more insistent. “You’ve been through enough,” it pleads. “Just cool off outside and skip the discomfort.”
It takes great strength to acknowledge that part, and then remind it that I will feel better after I go through the pain. My neck will thank me tomorrow. My mood will be better for my family, for my work the next day. I will be fighting evil by strengthening my immune system. I will be giving my body a cleaning from the inside out. It’s worth it. “I can do anything for a minute,” I tell the resisting part of me.
Then I get in. Up to my neck. And I sit there, for 2-3 minutes, breathing deeply.
And this is the girl who wouldn’t even turn the shower to cold for the last 30 seconds.
I have found that the same kind of strength it takes to willingly enter a cold plunge is the same kind of strength it takes to engage the whole of your story. Not just the parts we like, but to face all of it. Particularly when you have endured great pain, loss, sorrow, disappointment, or trauma. “The only way out is through,” is a truth we’re all probably familiar with, and healing is no exception. The only way to live an abundant life is to walk through the pain. I don’t mean we need to go searching for pain in order to have an abundant life. You live long enough, and your heart will break. It’s inevitable. And it will take immense courage and strength to engage your pain in order to heal from it. There is no other way.
God appears to have embedded this truth of “through pain comes life” everywhere. I see it in the biblical story of salvation (in order to save us, Jesus must suffer and die), in exercise and health (in order to gain muscle, you must first tear muscle fibers), in gardening (in order to bear fruit, you must first cut off part of the tree). Jesus told people if they want to follow him, they must first deny themselves, take up their cross, and follow him (Luke 9:23). Life with Jesus means denial of self and a cross.
It’s sadly ironic that our Christian faith, centered around a Savior who suffered and died, is so selectively triumphant. One of the things that I’ve come to see is how imbalanced the church is. In general, the Western church seems to know how to rejoice and sing praises about God’s faithfulness, love, salvation, and hope, but barely acknowledges what we’re saved from or the darkness in which we live. I’ve met many grievers whose grief was not welcome to church (myself included). Joy reigns, and sorrows do not belong.
I’ve agonized over this, as this selectiveness isn’t at all the God I see in Scripture. It’s true that Jesus reigns, but when I am suffering, I need more than positive truths and quick answers. I need the whole of Scripture. I need the whole of Psalms. I need the whole of Jesus, who not only rose but also suffered, wept, agonized, lamented, and was intimately acquainted with grief. I meet him in my Bible; should I not also meet him in the church that bears his name?
This selectiveness of focusing on the positive at the exclusion of the negative is known culturally as “toxic positivity”. On the Anxiety and Depression Association of America (ADAA) website, Dr. Graham Reynolds says, “toxic positivity occurs when encouraging statements are expected to minimize or eliminate painful emotions, creating pressure to be unrealistically optimistic without considering the circumstances of the situation.” He goes on to explain how avoidance of painful realities or emotions can increase anxiety or depression instead of helping heal.
Sadly, so much toxic positivity exists in Christian communities in many forms, such as positive worship songs, prayers of thanks and honor without cries of lament, or Bible verses misapplied to the hurting in order to help them “feel better” without acknowledging their painful reality. For example, one I heard often when my mother died was, “At least she knew Jesus,”. That truth is true, but applied at that time, was an effort to minimize my painful emotions instead of entering godly grief over death with me. Hence the toxicity. I needed to grieve in order to begin healing. “Looking at the bright side” was keeping me from bringing my pain to Jesus.
Clarity has slowly come as to why this problem exists. My pain acted as a magnet. It either drew people to me or repelled them. While each person who drew near to me was unique, they had an ability in common. They were comfortable with discomfort. They were willing to engage my pain and feel both their own and mine. They resembled the Jesus I saw in Scripture: the Man of Sorrows, who is especially tuned in to my broken heart.
For those who my pain repelled, they most likely hadn’t learned how to engage pain well. Or perhaps they didn’t want to because they hadn’t engaged their own pain well, and mine triggered theirs. Whatever the unique reasons, the result of this Christian toxic positivity is a widespread inability to care for the hurting and wounded. In such a culture, the wounded stay wounded, healing is kept at bay, and the Spirit-filled life is shut down. The very name of Jesus is used in a way he never intended: to keep people from engaging the painful parts of their story with him.
This engaging one’s own pain, or someone else’s, is very difficult work indeed. I can speak from personal experience of engaging the effects of abuse, divorce, childhood wounds, cancer, caregiving, trauma, and death. It’s some of the hardest work I have ever done. And I know my story is not unique. So many people are hurting, and trying to find ways to manage their hurt in order to function.
Instead of engaging one’s pain, Christian communities have developed some religious protectors of feeling pain. In their book Boundaries For Your Soul by Alison Cook and Kimberly Miller, these “parts” of ourselves who want to keep us from feeling pain are called “protectors” and “firefighters”. Two common ones Christians use are the “spiritualizer” and the “Jesus imposter”. They have a Bible verse and a reason for everything, and they have little to no capacity to sit with another’s pain or struggle. They use selective biblical truths to avoid feeling and facing painful realities. They work overtime in many lives, seeking to help their person feel as little pain as possible. In Jesus’ name, of course.
These protectors and firefighters get a bad rap in Christians circles. “You’re worshipping idols,” say the church leaders, when you keep reaching for these good things in order to feel better. Perhaps these good things, like sex or food or success or comfort, have indeed become an idol to the person. But I have a hunch that underneath this reaching for comfort is a pain-filled, unaddressed part of a person who is desperate for relief and unaware or unable to bring this pain to Jesus, particularly when this is not modeled by the Christian community. These struggling people need repentance, perhaps, but first they need to know how to bring this unaddressed pain to the light in order to heal.
The beautiful truth that Alison and Kimberly share is that Jesus loves all of our parts, the ones in pain, and the ones who work very hard to keep us from feeling pain. He wants to engage all of us, all of our story, in order to bring us healing and life and joy. We will always have struggles, wounds, and significant pain to deal with in this life. But we have a Savior who knows what it is like, who bears our sorrow with us, and who will walk through every step of it, bearing us up daily (Ps. 68:19). A true Christian community will not hide from the awful parts of life, nor the wonderful ones, but have a balance of both sorrow and joy. They will bring all of one’s story to the table, not just the pleasurable parts, because that is how our God heals us. He alone is capable of meeting the most wounded parts of ourselves with the compassion, grace, and healing we so desperately need.
It takes tremendous strength to engage the whole of your story, to face it for what it is, to befriend all the parts of us who helped us survive and who may be working very hard to keep us from ever feeling that level of pain again. To face such pain well, we will need a community of support. Often we need a professional to provide guidance and support, and we need people who are willing to bear some of our pain with us. Even though many don’t know it, Christians serve a God who is more than capable of bringing healing to the darkest places of our hearts. But in order to access that healing, we must learn to engage all of our lives with him and with each other.
It’s not pleasant work, just like that cold plunge. “You’ve been through enough,” a protector says. “Just turn on the TV show and skip the discomfort,” pleads the firefighter. However, I could tell you, after years of imperfectly engaging the most painful parts of my story with Jesus and with others, I’ve experienced the greatest freedom I’ve ever known thus far in my life. I am more whole. Fear does not dominate me anymore. My trauma no longer has a grip on me. While I still feel strong emotions, they don’t control me. Jesus has become more dear to me than ever before. Bearing sorrow has given me a strength and depth that joy alone simply can’t. I now have the strength to weep with another who is suffering without trying to fix it. While I will carry grief with me the rest of my life, I am also carrying joy.
The benefits of engaging pain are glorious. Like our Savior, they come through great suffering, if we would be brave enough to enter it with him.
