Writing with Thorns
by Charles R. Swindoll
In pain, grief, affliction, and loss, it often helps to write our feelings . . . not just feel them. Putting words on paper seems to free our feelings from the lonely prison of our souls.
It was C. S. Lewis who wrote:
Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything. . . . No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.
It was William Armstrong who wrote:
Back in the house I moved on leaden feet from chore to chore.
It was Ada Campbell Rose who wrote:
The mantle of grief falls on every hour of the day and covers me while I sleep. Will it ever go away?
It was King David who wrote:
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I fear no evil, for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. (Psalm 23:4)
It was the apostle Paul who wrote:
Because of the surpassing greatness of the revelations, for this reason, to keep me from exalting myself, there was given me a thorn in the flesh, a messenger of Satan to torment me—to keep me from exalting myself! Concerning this I implored the Lord three times that it might leave me. And He has said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness." Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me. Therefore I am well content with weaknesses, with insults, with distresses, with persecutions, with difficulties, for Christ's sake; for when I am weak, then I am strong.
(2 Corinthians 12:7–10)
It was George Matheson who wrote:
My God, I have never thanked Thee for my thorn. I have thanked Thee a thousand times for my roses, but not once for my thorns. I have been looking forward to a world where I shall get compensation for my cross, but I have never thought of my cross as itself a present glory. . . . Teach me the glory of my cross, teach me the value of my thorn. Show me that I have climbed to Thee by the path of pain. Show me that my tears have made my rainbow.
As you feel the stinging thorns of pain today, what do you write? Nothing? Healing stands with folded arms waiting to read your words. Small wonder you're still bleeding.
Excerpted from Come Before Winter and Share My Hope, Copyright © 1985, 1988, 1994 by Charles R. Swindoll, Inc. All rights reserved worldwide. Used by permission.
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