When I was twelve years old, I started a running career that I thought would be little more than a social outlet. That was 30 years ago. Over these decades and countless miles, I’ve endured fatigue, sprained ankles, sore muscles, and excruciating neck and back pain that drove me to the chiropractor more than once. Despite these relatively minor issues, I feel fortunate to have enjoyed so many years of running without a debilitating injury. 

Three years ago, however, a series of physical ailments seemed to follow me every time I left the house. I battled a stress fracture in my left foot and severe, unexplainable, crippling pain in my left hand. I would have taken time off to properly address these issues but I didn’t think I could afford that kind of pause in the middle of training for a half-marathon. 

After one particularly exhausting week with my mind and heart heavy with stress, I woke up on a sunny Saturday, eager to start my long run. The introvert in me was giddy for the time on the road to think. With shoelaces tied tight and the iPod synced with new songs, I cinched the straps of my Camelback, closed the front door, bounded down the porch steps, and jogged out of our small town.  

About a quarter mile down the road, without any explanation, I tripped. Extending my arms to brace my fall, I hit the concrete, as if violently shoved from behind. My body bounced once and landed with my left shoulder grazing a low brick wall. Immediate, intense pain flooded my left knee, then washed over my hands. Blood oozed down my leg, into my sock. My initial assessment indicated deep fissures in my knee with no skin to stitch, and possible chipped bone. My hands screamed with searing pain as I tried to remove small dots of gravel that peppered the landscape of my raw, bloody palms. An ugly fall, indeed. 

Days later, I returned to the road but the new injuries only intensified my struggle with an already difficult summer of running. With each painful step in the sweltering heat, my hands and knee throbbing, my thoughts centered on my friend Norma, whom I met years ago while working at a camp. 

Norma had multiple sclerosis. When I first met her, she was in her late forties, a sweet, spunky woman confined to an electric wheelchair that required minimal use of her hands to operate. Her husband had left her years prior because “he couldn’t handle her needs.” Despite his desertion and her new home at a nursing care facility, she managed life with joy and humor, slow in her speech and quick with her wit. 

Early one morning at camp, I joined Norma and her counselor to help with her bed bath. I filled the small, plastic basin with warm water and soap and began to gently clean her from head to toe. We laughed and chatted, easing any awkwardness in that quiet room. While gently turning her on her side, I apologized, thinking I had hurt her in the process. Her blue eyes met mine and she whispered, “Oh, Katie. I wish I could feel pain.” Tears pooled in the corner of her kind eyes and as I swallowed a lump, I silently acknowledged the world contained in her words.

Norma’s wish has followed me for the past 18 years. As the skin on my knee has thickened, I am left with a tangible reminder, not only of the intense pain I felt that summer but also the gift of being able to feel it. Without a proper alert system, without the ability to sense a hot stove, a hammer against our thumb, or a gaping wound from a painful experience in our lives, the damage will likely accumulate until we begin to lose a limb or a relationship or the hope we once had.   

Pain, physical or otherwise, begs us to take notice, to listen to our anguish. If we ignore it, it’ll scream like an insufferable child until we acknowledge its presence. It’ll force us to unpack whatever pain might be hidden in the bag of grief we carry, to reach in and sort out the contents. It’ll demand that we seek appropriate remedies, whether that’s a good wound cleanse, the deep and necessary work of the Holy Spirit, a trusted friend, or a good licensed therapist.  

In this season of intentional gratitude, of giving thanks for ‘all things,’ I’m offering a prayer of thanks to God for Norma’s life, for His wisdom spoken through her broken body, and for His patience in teaching me that to experience pain is a divine gift. Without it, I might have suffered a more severe injury, a more devastating loss. I might have missed the invitation to move forward in greater awareness of my pain, its cause, the need to deal with it, and how the Lord might be working in me and for me in the midst of it.