Just Breathe

Last week I had the pleasure of shoveling snow. I don’t say that jokingly. Living in Brazil I have missed snow, and I used to enjoy shoveling it—the way snow makes everything outside quieter and the satisfaction of a completed job.

I not only got to shovel our driveway, but also did the driveway for Marci’s Mom. And in between I cracked a rib. At first, I thought I just pulled a muscle, since I had been shoveling for hours and figured that I’m getting older now and that’s life.

Apparently, I’m old enough to crack a rib and young enough to not realize it right away. As evening came my “pulled muscle” got worse instead of better, making it hard to breathe and hurting all the time. That night I replayed what I did in between the two driveways. I got my van ready and had to slam against an icy van door repeatedly, trying to get it fully shut. After one of the times that I thrusted my side against the door, I felt something I’d never felt before, like my insides were crushing me from within. I ignored it and went back to slamming the van with my side and then went and shoveled my mother-in-law’s driveway, and, well, you already know the rest of the story.

That night everything hurt. Breathing. Standing. Sitting. And especially lying down. Bones typically require 4-6 weeks to heal, and most broken bones get treated with casts to keep them in place to heal properly. But ribs are different. They are kind of already in-place, and they need to move constantly to allow for breathing. That’s why 85% of broken or cracked ribs do not receive any surgical intervention. You just have to deal with the pain and let the healing process do its thing.

When I moved to Brazil I quickly realized how much I valued my own comfort. Physically, I lamented being hot and sweaty all the time. Emotionally, I struggled with my hurt pride in becoming the “stupid immigrant” who is presumed to know nothing about anything because he cannot yet speak the language of his new culture. Spiritually, I wondered about how crazy cross-cultural missions is – how I know Brazilians who learned English and moved to America to become pastors and professors there, so why did God move me here where everything was so uncomfortable for me, especially as I dealt with a reset in most all my capabilities? Over the course of my first term I worked through some of those discomforts, and I will return to some of them in June when I fly back to Brazil on another one-way ticket.

While my life has been more comfortable in America this home assignment, my physical comfort has been ripped away the past week over one shove of an icy van door. And again I’m faced with how much I idolize my own comfort. When breathing hurts, every breath becomes an event. When lying down hurts, every night in a recliner is worth lamenting over.

And yet the pain, while a needling annoyance throughout my days and nights, is somehow my friend in healing. My pain tells me my limits and reminds me of my brokenness. One day, after its job is done my pain will subside, and I will return to a normal life. But will I be any different for it?

Will I go back to breathing without thinking about it or praising God for its gift? Will I return to my bed, lying down each night without relishing in the relief of rest? Will I forget about my ribcage, that interconnected ring of protection around my most vital parts, and slam it repeatedly against an icy door again until it cracks? I imagine I will end up somewhere in between.

For now I’ve come to think about how cracks and pain are so limiting. Without a visible cast no one knows what I am feeling while I am out and about in the world. Everything looks fine. I wonder if people can’t figure out why I won’t do things I used to do, or why I look tired, or why I seem so down. Constant, unrelenting pain has a way of being everywhere present and at the same time hard to pin down. Grief is like that too.

And so the past week has given me pause to be patient with those in my life who are dealing with cracks and pains of their own, whether that’s physical, emotional, or spiritual. If there is one thing I do know about my Christian faith is that pain and brokenness is never the last word. There is always the hopeful promise of restoration and renewal.

When Paul talks about the armor of the Lord it is righteousness that serves as our breastplate. God will do what is right. He will save us. He will keep his promises. He will heal the brokenhearted and bind up their wounds. And one day he’ll teach even me what is more vital and precious than my own comfort.

But for now I’ll just breathe.

In the pain.