This summer, I broke my wrist. The healing process includes two phases. The first requires immobilizing in a cast to allow the bones to heal and repair. Once enough time passed to let this take place, then came the second phase of physical therapy. Both phases have their goals and unpleasantries.

Immediately following the injury, the goal was to protect the vulnerable broken bones and control the pain. Both were mainly accomplished by casting my arm. The cast was cumbersome but provided a stable and protective encasing for my arm, and the immobility disallowed any joint movement that initiated shots of breath-arresting pain. While in the cast, many ordinary things were more complicated, like wearing a dress shirt or finding a comfortable sleeping position. I was glad when my doctor consented to free me from the hard cast and wear a removable brace instead. But the newfound freedom came with a new awareness of how sensitive my wrist still was when, out of the cast, movements would cause sharp pain.

As a youth, I did not experience any significant injuries. I had never before broken a bone or had any medical need that required anything other than over-the-counter remedies. I did have a few injuries from physical activities, but nothing that could not heal on its own with rest and time. The resilience of youth affords an arrogance that cannot be maintained when the body can no longer accommodate the physical demands that such arrogance assumes. My response to injuries as a young man was to press on and trust that things would get better on their own. No longer confident in being able to get better with simply an ice pack and ibuprofen, I have had to adjust my response to injuries. With my youth now well behind me, I still strive to be active and healthy but recognize that recovering from injuries will require much more than in days past. These days, when faced with an injury, I try to press through it and work as hard as I can to facilitate healing and recovery.

When I first met with my orthopedic doctor after breaking my wrist, I asked him about the best approach to heal my wrist that would provide the greatest chance to regain full mobility. Then, as I returned to his office week after week, I asked what my limits were and what I could do to work toward healing. And as soon as he released me to start physical therapy, I made the appointment.

My physical therapist, Philip, is a friend and someone I trust to be honest about achievable goals and the length of the therapy process. I also trust that he has the expertise and knowledge to help me recover the most motion and function possible from my injured wrist. At my first visit, he assessed my injured wrist and the healing progress. We discussed what were reasonable expectations for what physical therapy could achieve. I confidently told him that no matter the pain or discomfort, I wanted to recover as much function as possible. I told him of my orthopedic doctor's warning that I would likely not recover full motion and assured him that I was very motivated to do the work needed to recover all that I could. Philip was encouraging with some qualifications. He was encouraging in that he thought significant recovery of motion and function was possible. However, he was also frank that the process would be painful and challenging.

I generally have a high pain tolerance. And I was determined to work through this injury as hard as possible to facilitate recovery. Compelled by this, I boldly declared that I understood and wanted him to do everything he could to recover as much motion and function as possible. I assured him I was more concerned with recovery than comfort. With a smile, he said, "we will see about that."

Therapy is excruciating. My therapist's personality is light-hearted and jovial. The treatment room is an open area allowing for patients to interact with one another. His personality and approach to his work create a happy and enjoyable atmosphere. The other therapist and staff are kind and gracious. In the treatment room, there is often much laughter. And under different circumstances, time spent in the treatment room would be much enjoyed. However, my therapy primarily consists of the therapist moving my hand up and down, side to side, and back and forth from one eye-watering pain point to another. Sometimes it hurts so bad I cannot carry on a conversation. Sometimes the pain is so intense I cannot remain seated. While the therapist holds and manipulates my hand, I wiggle and squirm every other part of my body, trying to endure the insufferable pain. 

We spend so much effort trying to avoid pain and discomfort; why would I willfully go to a place where I know I will experience pain? My therapist was honest about what therapy would require; knowing this, I still make appointments, willfully attend my appointments, and even gladly pay for the services. Each session is painful and difficult, yet at the end, I genuinely thank the very person who has caused me to suffer for the past hour. To willfully pursue pain and discomfort is counterintuitive. To continue to pursue pain and discomfort is contrary to our normal avoidance of such things. So why have I been going to physical therapy and intend to continue to do so? I do so because I have faith that my therapist has the knowledge and ability to bring healing and restoration to my wrist. I have confidence that though he presently inflicts pain, his work has a purpose and will result in my wrist being able to move and bend as it did before the break. I put my hand into his, trusting that as he bends my wrist well beyond what is comfortable, he is working for my good and betterment.

No one enjoys pain. Comforts and pleasure are easily welcomed. There are certainly times when ministries of comfort are appropriate and good. Immediately after breaking my wrist, I received, with great thanksgiving, the medicines and treatments that brought relief from the pain and provided comfort in my distress. These comforts were well received in my moment of anguish. Yet, these many weeks past the injury, if I still muted the pain with medications or avoided the discomfort of movement by keeping the wrist immobilized in a cast, these things would no longer be blessings but instruments of dysfunction. Ultimately, all pain has its genesis in the curse of sin inaugurated with the sin of Adam and Eve. The great hope of the gospel is that for those who have been redeemed by the cross of Jesus, all pain will have its consummation at His second coming. Until then, pain is a testimony to the curse of sin and the brokenness of everything this side of heaven.

But there is a characteristic of pain that gives hope and in which I take great comfort. 

The unique characteristic of pain is that it cannot be relived once it is no more. Unlike pleasure, you may remember that you were in pain, but you cannot relive the experience of pain. When our bodies feel pain, it signals that something is wrong. The intensity of pain keeps us from walking on broken legs and damaging them more than the original break. The intensity of pain keeps us from holding onto an object that is too hot to hold. In the moment, pain can be all-consuming. When severe, pain demands our full attention, and we can think of little else. In the moments when pain is great and unrelenting, it is hard to remember a time before it came or imagine a future without it. But when the pain subsides, we can remember that we once hurt, but we cannot relive the experience. On the other hand, we can remember and relive a pleasant moment. Have you noticed how a smell can bring back memories of a previous experience, and as you remember, you relive the pleasure of that memory? The memory of pain may be recalled, but the ability to relive the experience of pain is significantly muted compared to reliving memories of pleasure.

My first exposure to this truth came almost three decades ago when I read Dr. Paul Brand's book, The Gift of Pain. In the book, Brand writes about this wonderful limitation of pain with these words: 

Oddly, though, this sensation that eclipses all others is hardest to remember once it fades. I can close my eyes and summon up a constellation of scenes and faces from the past. Through sheer mental effort I can nearly replicate the smell of an Indian village or the taste of chicken curry. I can mentally replay familiar motifs from hymns, symphonies, and popular songs. But only weakly can I recall excruciating pain. Gallbladder attacks, agony from a ruptured disc, and airplane crash – my memories come to me stripped of the unpleasantries.*

In the moment, pain is terrible, but when it is no more, the memory of the event remains but not the memory of its sensation. Add this to my confidence in the healing that will result from the pain of therapy, and you understand why I willingly, thankfully, and joyfully welcome the pain of treatment. This present momentary suffering is leading to future healing. This present momentary suffering is restoring what the injury took away. This present momentary suffering is difficult, but it will bear fruit of rejoicing when healing comes. When this moment comes, I will rejoice in what the pain has produced while my memory of the pain inflicted during the therapy sessions will have been "stripped of the unpleasantries."

No one enjoys pain. Yet pain that has purpose is endurable suffering. The Bible is very clear that we will know pain and often much of it in this world. Until the Lord returns, there will be mourning, crying, and pain. But for those who are children of God, we have confidence that in the hands of the great physician, He is working all things together for good. We will never like pain. We will never enjoy pain. But we can endure pain with hope when it comes with the promise of healing and the assurance that when it is no more, it will joyfully be forgotten. 

I will soon again walk into my next therapy session. Awaiting me there is pain. I will go in with hope, and I will leave with thanksgiving. Hope in the fleeting, temporary nature of pain. And thanksgiving for the healing it will produce.

*Yancey, Philip, and Paul W. Brand. The Gift of Pain: Why We Hurt & What We Can Do about It, Zondervan Publ., Grand Rapids, Mich, 1997, pp. 217–218.