Our Sacred Scars: Making Meaning from Suffering (Part 1)
By Kimberly Phinney
“When pain and suffering come upon us, we finally see not only that we are not in control of our lives but that we never were.”
Dr. Tim Keller, Walking with God through Pain and Suffering
1.
The night I came home after my third surgery’s hospitalization held a darkness I’ll never forget.
After many months of being bedridden, I finally looked in the mirror to see my mangled body, as my husband propped me up. I was gazing at a stranger. My frame hunched forward and was an unrecognizable, emaciated shadow of my former self. My arms were pocked and bruised with hundreds of uninvited needles that delivered lifesaving antibiotics over the previous months, but also destroyed my veins and sanity in the process. But worst of all, my abdomen had become a landmine, covered in sutures and scars, and this newest war wound was a 12-inch incision that still bled and oozed, sprawling from above my dissented belly button down to my pubic bone.
Finally, I surveyed my dark eye sockets, gaunt face, deadened skin, and hair loss, and at once, I was so overwhelmed with dread that I almost vomited...
My God, how do I survive this?
Ever the English teacher I knew what I had become; I was Frankenstein’s wretch and Elie Wiesel at the end of Night—a hacked-up, half-dead stranger.
Between sepsis and the fallout from my disease and multiple surgeries, I could no longer bathe myself. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t care for our daughter. I could barely hold a pen to write. My pain was so bad, I lost my ability to form a coherent thought or even read my treasured books. I only existed to suffer, and I could feel the dark thoughts slipping in…
My God, I can’t survive this.
My body had become a battlefield. And I was slipping away.
2.
Yes, 2021 was the year I faced my own mortality in more ways than one. And every moment since than has been a certain kind of war—full of brutal moments and battles that only I know (but with many beautiful ones in between—because life is both).
As I write this, I can hardly believe the events of my own life. I can hardly believe I am still here. And I imagine it will take me many more years to come to terms with everything that happened.
I want to tell you I handled all of this with dignity, strength, and grace. But I didn’t. As grotesque as my scars and body were on the outside, the scars I carried on the inside were that much more troubling. For every suture, bruise, and wound my body bore, there was tenfold more on my insides.
Truth be told, I was suicidal and convinced that I was beyond repair—both physically and spiritually. When I should have had a Chrisitan hope and an abiding peace, like the Bible promises, I was consumed by unadulterated doses of shame and fear that engulfed me—wave on wave—like the tide coming in against the pylons.
I prayed to God but couldn’t hear him. I’d beg him at 3:00 a.m. many nights to let me sleep and forget this suffering for a little while, but I did not sleep. One night, in particular, I begged for God to let me sleep or let me die—again and again. Neither happened. I was so angry and teetering on the edge of my own insanity. I was sure that was the end.
During the long, quiet mornings, which carried an oppressive quality all their own, I’d cry to my husband over and over, begging him to help, but even he couldn’t get through to me with reason or hope:
“I’m not going to get through this.”
“I’m going to be in a wheelchair forever.”
“I’m losing my mind.”
“I’ve lost everything.”
“I’m so broken, no one can fix me.”
“This physical pain is going to kill me.”
“I don’t want to keep going.”
“God has abandoned me.”
More and more, I could understand Job’s grief. But less and less, I had his trust. And I was terrified—because all my life I was a woman who was FULL of faith.
3.
To lose so much overnight is the stuff of nightmares. To watch your body break. To endure surgery after surgery, only to get sicker and sicker. To have your mind fail you. To have everything that was once so solid, so sturdy crumble down around you. To be at the lowest point of your life and be blamed and attacked for your illness. To be the object of gossip you overhear. To lose friends, esteem, your job, your community...
Illness leaves absolutely nothing untouched.
We hear sad stories like this all the time. We gasp and say, “How sad. That’s just terrible.” But there is a quieter part in us that says, “Thank God that’s not me.” And sometimes we even think there is something about us that is better, or stronger, or more noble because catastrophic misfortune has left us alone. We might even look around at our blessed lives and think we had something to do with it.
Then we look away.
Until it happens to us.
And then we can no longer look away.
We soon realize those deep-inside-thoughts-we-would-never-say-out-loud-to-anyone were wrong. Wrong in every way. And the utter humbling that comes next is yet another leveling wave.
Trust me, I know.
Friend, there will come a time in all our lives that our trauma, scars, or battlefields will demand everything from us. And when it happens, we will no longer have the luxury of discharging our uncomfortable feelings or looking away.
I don’t share all of this for you to feel sorry for me. I don’t share all of this to relive it. I share it because these lessons from my suffering and survival are invaluable to me—and I so badly want them to be a gift to you and an offering to God.
These years have torn my family and me apart. They nearly cost me my life in more ways than one. But here I am—standing in the rubble and looking for beautiful pieces that can be pieced back together again. But this time it is with fine gold and the stuff of God’s supernatural ways—like kintsugi.*
Yes, I broke. Yes, I even shattered. But I survived. And my Maker is putting me back together, bit by bit. And after a while, I will be stronger and more beautiful in my breaking than I ever was when I was “whole.”
Yes, like kintsugi.
Yes, like beauty from ashes.
4.
So, this is where things get interesting, friend. I am going to need your help, so stay with me.
I want to share with you what I have been learning these three years into my critical and chronic illness in a multipart series. As I write this, we are awaiting yet another surgery so that I am no longer homebound, bedbound, and in daily pain and dysfunction. I write from the point of view of someone who is still VERY MUCH in it. So, you won’t find trite things or Pollyannaish catchphrases here. I am not interested in Christianese and platitudes. I am interested in the grit and glory of living and the cutting, beautiful, life-affirming truth.
So, here are several questions below that I have asked many times throughout this journey, which I will answer in the coming posts (to the best of my ability). I think they are a good place to get started.
1. Why does a loving God allow suffering?
2. Why does it seem like God is silent when we are hurting the most?
3. Why do people abandon, doubt, blame, or ostracize the sufferer?
4. Is there any meaning in suffering?
So, here’s where YOU come in. I am asking YOU, yes YOU, to help me. Please ask me questions about suffering. Share your thoughts and experiences. Tell me anything you want. If you want it public, let me know. If you want it to be private, let me know. In the next part of this series, I will start addressing my questions and yours!
Slowly, over the gift of time, I have seen God move on my behalf. I have found a higher wisdom move inside me, teaching me things I didn’t know. I know many of you have walked these roads, too. So, let’s collectively come together in this beloved community and make our scars sacred. Let’s learn to find sanctity in our suffering. And let’s survive.
I can’t wait to hear from you.
You belong here,
me
*Kintsugi is adorning broken ceramics with a lacquer mixed with powdered gold is part of a more than 500-year-old Japanese tradition that highlights imperfections rather than hiding them. This not only teaches calm when a cherished piece of pottery breaks; it is a reminder of the beauty of human fragility as well. In a world that so often prizes youth, perfection and excess, embracing the old and battered may seem strange. But the 15th-Century practice of kintsugi, meaning “to join with gold”, is a reminder to stay optimistic when things fall apart and to celebrate the flaws and missteps of life. (from Terushi Sho and BBC.com: Kintsugi: Japan’s ancient art of embracing imperfection - BBC Travel)
HE WILL MEET OUR SCARS & BROKEN PARTS WITH A GOLDEN REPAIR. YOUR STORY ISN’T OVER YET. TRUST HIM.
GET TIM KELLER’S BOOK ON SUFFERING:
KIMBERLY PHINNEY
Kimberly Phinney is a mom, wife, and child of God. As a professional helper and artist, Kimberly is an English professor, as well as a writer, counselor, and professional photographer. Her writing has been published in Ekstasis, Fathom, Calla Press, Humana Obscura, The Dewdrop, and more. After surviving a severe form of Stage 4 Endometriosis and sepsis in 2021, she is now earning her doctorate in counseling to help the marginalized and suffering. She is the founder and editor of this faith community and literary journal, The Way Back to Ourselves, and was recently featured on ABC News and Good Morning America for her national teaching award and the compelling health story surrounding it. As a mental health and disabilities advocate, Kimberly hopes to use her life, story, and art to help others find their way back to wholeness and faith in a world that has forgotten how. She is glad you are here.