Pain Made Me A Believer—A Cane Taught Me Humility

So, I did a thing: I bought my first walking cane. I’ve been reflecting on the lessons pain teaches: humility, patience, trust, and more.

I have an ongoing back issue that flares up from time to time—usually when I forget my limitations. Almost a month ago, I forgot that I’m twenty years older than my coworkers and jumped in to help with something that I should’ve avoided. As a result, I pulled my back out, forcing a return to chiropractic care. This flare-up has been more acute than previous ones, so I’ve bought a cane. In the past few weeks, pain has taught me a few lessons that I’d like to share:

Humility

I’ve always loved the aesthetic of a good wizard’s staff. So, from a young age I always said, “I hope I never need a walking stick, but if I ever do, I’m going to get an awesome one.” So, when I finally admitted to myself that I needed an assistive device, I looked at every magical-looking, world-traveler-looking, and spy-gadget-type staff and cane that I could. At fifty-three, I didn’t want to feel ready for an “old man cane.” But, cool as these were, I had to come to grips with the fact that I needed function over form—and that same-day accessibility was more important than a conversation piece.

So, I finally swallowed my pride and bought a medical-grade cane that met all my needs. I didn’t want to look like an “old man” with an assistive device. But I eventually realized that this need to be fashionable or cool in my temporary limitation was nothing more than vanity. I needed quit judging the bazillions of people who use medical canes—and join their ranks with humility.

Nonjudgment

I’ve learned to practice nonjudgment of others. I used to think people with disabilities whose symptoms come and go were “faking it” when they weren’t presently experiencing symptoms. I now realize that pain comes and goes for many people. You can have good days and bad days, good moments and bad moments. Often, you can reach into your energy reserves when the need presses—even if you generally make use of assistance when it’s available.

When I was young, I knew a great-grandmother who utilized a wheelchair. I used to think she was terribly dramatic as she cried out in pain sometimes and then sat quietly on other occasions. One behavior that I particularly judged her for: she would ask for help getting something, but then if that did not come quickly, she would rise from her wheelchair and get the thing herself. I interpreted this as laziness and hypochondria. Had I known better, I would have realized she wasn’t totally incapable of walking, but walking was costly—painful and draining. She asked for help to avoid pain—but when she had to, she could muster the courage and do things for herself. Instead of judging her, I should have admired her grit when she could exercise it.

Patience

When I was young, I used to think that people who moved slowly, haltingly, or with awkward posture “just moved that way.” I thought, “Old people are just slow.” I didn’t realize that many are in constant pain, and that’s why they’re slow. So, I’ve learned to be patient with them, as I’d like them to be patient with me.

I’ve learned to be patient with myself when it comes to planning my day. I know it’s going to take me more time to get from one place to another, and maybe time to rest along the way, so I’ve built that extra time into my activities.

Intentionality

I’ve learned to be more intentional about the way I go about things. I have to work smarter, not harder. This means planning to bring a folding stool when I visit clients in the field, because I know I’m going to need to rest. It means making sure I carry my cane with me. It means paring down the gear that I carry, to be kinder to my back, and scheduling meetings at my office instead of in the field, whenever possible.

Self-Forgiveness

I’ve learned to forgive myself for my limitations. I can’t stand for more than ten minutes at a time now, which makes a lot of housework difficult. My wife has been taking up the slack, which makes me feel guilty. But I’m also learning what her long-suffering love looks like—and it helps me to forgive myself.

Trust in Others

I’m learning to rely more on teamwork. I’m not Superman. I can’t get the job done alone. At work, this means asking my team for help when I need it. During the holidays, it means trusting guests to do the after-dinner cleanup that is generally my task, while I sit and rest. This is a hard pill to swallow, but it has made me a believer in the goodness of others who care more than I recognize and who are happy to help.

The Emotional Side of Pain

I’m learning about the emotional side of pain, too. Pain drains you of emotional energy, causing you to be more irritable. I’ve had to apologize to my caring wife for snapping at her when I was frustrated with myself or just in too much pain to be polite. I’m trying to learn to take a beat, give myself some breathing space, and deal with my own emotions before unloading on others.

Pain is Often Invisible

I’m becoming aware that pain is often invisible. Many people who live with pain don’t walk with canes, don’t use assistive devices, and don’t write articles on Patheos about it. This is new to me, so I’m just processing it. For those living with relentless pain for years: I’m not comparing; I’m learning. I’m not the expert—you are. My recurring back pain with flare-ups that can last months is just a window into what you live with every day. What I want to say is this—even if your pain is invisible, YOU are not. I see you. And we should learn to see all those who struggle with unseen pain.

Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes

All this reminds me of Paul’s first letter to the church of Corinth, where he says that the Church is one body with many members—each one exercising its gifts differently. Paul writes:

¹⁴Indeed, the body does not consist of one member but of many. ¹⁵If the foot would say, “Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,” that would not make it any less a part of the body. ¹⁶And if the ear would say, “Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body,” that would not make it any less a part of the body. ¹⁷If the whole body were an eye, where would the hearing be? If the whole body were hearing, where would the sense of smell be? ¹⁸But as it is, God arranged the members in the body, each one of them, as he chose. ¹⁹If all were a single member, where would the body be? ²⁰As it is, there are many members yet one body. ²¹The eye cannot say to the hand, “I have no need of you,” nor again the head to the feet, “I have no need of you.” ²²On the contrary, the members of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, ²³and those members of the body that we think less honorable we clothe with greater honor, and our less respectable members are treated with greater respect, ²⁴whereas our more respectable members do not need this. But God has so arranged the body, giving the greater honor to the inferior member, ²⁵that there may be no dissension within the body, but the members may have the same care for one another. ²⁶If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it.

This means it’s okay to accept who you are—with all your abilities and disabilities—and celebrate your uniqueness as a child of God. It means the Creator has given you talents and skills to help me when I can’t do something. It also means that even though there are things I can’t do right now, I have skills I can still use, ways I can still contribute, and inherent dignity as an image-bearer of God. And that goes for everyone—regardless of their abilities or disabilities.

The other day, I was singing with my grandson—that old song, “Head, shoulders, knees, and toes.” He would touch those body parts and try to say the words he’s only just learning to form. Just as each part has its role to play in the whole body, so each person makes up a unique part of the body of Christ.

Pain—You Make Me a Believer

There’s an Imagine Dragons song, “Pain,” about how the hard stuff becomes a teacher—whether you asked for the lesson or not. Yes—pain has taught me many lessons, and these are just the first few that came to mind. Pain has made me a believer in the goodness of others who lovingly offer assistance. It has taught me how to believe in myself—not as a Superman who can muscle through any physical problem, but as a person with limits, wisdom, and a capacity to adapt. And, as Paul says, “the members of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable.”