You worked, bled, sweated, cried, fought and finally arrived.
You look back at the hell you've been carried through, not wishing it upon your worst enemy.
But you wouldn't have it any other way.
Are we masochists? Wouldn't we change these experiences in a second, if we could?
But, you can't change the past. It's a funny little thing, pain.
The trophy doesn't mean as much, if you haven't put in the work to earn it.
The new car doesn't mean as much, if someone else paid for it.
You find new perspective on a relationship, after surviving hell.
Those twenty pounds? You felt each one.
Each level of pain, brings a kind of gift with it, as strange as it seems.
Imminent loss, causes us to hold onto those we love with renewed tenacity. Each moment becomes a gift. Loss of love, brings a renewed understanding of what love is, and what we were lacking in love previously. The workouts burn every fiber of our being, but produce a high so unmatched, that our gyms are packed morning, noon, and night.
Out of personal pain, comes some of art's most tremendous works.
Out of personal injury comes individuals who are willing to work tirelessly to ensure that others don't experience the things they did.
When we look around at the world, and the mess we've made of it, we often ask where God is in this. People knew God before this. Before all this shattered mess. They took it for granted. Now we live in a hellish place, catching glimpses of former glory. But, was it necessary? Do we finally learn what it means to depend, trust, and appreciate the One who made us, because of this mess?
Is that why He can be so real, even though we don't physically walk with Him daily?
I think so.
Pain isn't something I relish. It's a prickly thing to embrace. It hurts.
Sometimes, though, pain is the only way to see more clearly who you are, and who you were made to be. And, for that alone, pain has my respect.