The Stewardship of Pain

Pain comes in packages of different shapes and sizes. I was reminded of this truth this past week while speaking with a precious friend whose son had been killed in Iraq less than two days earlier. This grief-stricken lady described the one event no soldier’s mother, or wife, ever wants to experience. “When I saw those two uniformed soldiers walking toward my door with folder in hand,” she said, “I just collapsed.” I wept with her as I thought of her pain, and the pain of others touched by this young man’s tragic death.

Life is  not without pain. Sometimes it is the pain of overwhelming loss, as in the case described above. Sometimes the pain is physical, whether sudden and intense, or slow, debilitating and destructive. My wife and I shared dinner this past week in  the home of wonderful friends who, barring a miracle of God, will soon be working through her seemingly untimely death. As we reminisced together, both laughing and weeping, I felt we were treading on sacred ground.

Many are acquainted  with the pain of a wayward child. Parents, after all, can be no happier than their saddest child. Others know too well the pain of a broken family, and the broken heart that is often considered just the inevitable “collateral damage.” The pain of a misspent life can be tortuous, wearing away at the soul of a person whose regrets now outnumber dreams. And the pain of sin, when under conviction of the Holy Spirit, can be acute and withering. “Depart from me,” cried Peter as he crouched at the Lord’s feet, “for I am a sinful man.

So how can the child of God deal with pain?

E.F. “Preacher” Hallock, the long time pastor of First Baptist Church, Norman, Oklahoma, taught me my most helpful lesson regarding pain. I first met Preacher when, as a teenager, I was assigned (deliberately, I think) the responsibility of ferrying him between the motel where he was lodging and the church where he was preaching each morning and evening, a church pastored by my own father. We became immediate friends, probably more due to his efforts than mine, and I hung on every word as he taught about the importance of living on “Bible promises.”

Preacher’s messages that week, coupled with the later teachings of men like Manley Beasley, Ron Dunn, and both my father and grandfathers, were used by God’s grace to forge what I have called my life’s message. The will of God is revealed to the man of God, by the Spirit of God, through the Word of God. Three years later, after listening once again to Preacher at Siloam Springs Baptist Assembly, my heart was so plowed up that within days I received and answered God’s call to the ministry. I’ve shared the details of that event, I believe, in an earlier blog.

Early in ministry, I made a point of inviting Preacher Hallock to speak to the congregations I pastored. Somehow, once he had paved the way, it was far easier for me to lead my flock up to the higher pastures in God’s Word. I believe many young pastors today would be well-advised to follow that practice. But sadly, it seems the intensely personal role of a mentor is now often replaced by processes that are more detached and, unfortunately, more sterile and less productive personally. But back to the issue at hand—pain!

After his retirement, I occasionally took the staff of the church I pastored for a visit to Preacher’s house. There, as we were hosted by his gracious wife, Preacher would sit in a brown leather recliner and speak to us from his heart about the issues on our hearts. This practice continued even after Preacher was first diagnosed with cancer of the bone, and began the slow decline which culminated in his death.

On one occasion, feeling awkward and powerless as I watched him occasionally twist his body to ease the pain, I blurted out the question that was on all our minds. “Preacher, how do you explain this? How is it that, after all these years of serving God faithfully,  your last days are spent in terrible pain and sickness? It just seems unfair.”

I was unprepared for Preacher’s answer, but will never forget it! “All of life is a stewardship,” he replied in his slow, somewhat nasal tone. “God entrusts resources to our care, things like relationships, opportunities, money, time and ability. We then have the responsibility of stewardship over what God has given us. The last stewardship we will ever exercise is the stewardship over death.  Whether we want that privilege or not, it is ours just the same. Then, one day, we will render up an account to the Great Shepherd for all He has entrusted to us.”

Preacher’s eyes then revealed that characteristic twinkle which meant he was about  to show us a “mother lode” in God’s Word that was “better than gold.” “I’ve been thinking lately, that God had never allowed me the privilege of exercising stewardship over this kind of pain. Now, He is allowing me that privilege, and I hope He finds me a good steward.”

I remember little about the rest of that visit, except that it was the last with my mentor. Not many days afterward, I sat with hundreds of others who had been touched by his life, as we celebrated his “move up” to spend eternity with the Great Shepherd. But I will never forget his words about the “privilege of exercising stewardship over pain” no matter the manner in which that pain is packaged.

Myron and Annette Turner, we are praying for you, as you exercise stewardship over the pain of Jordan’s loss.

Jon and Carolyn Willis, thanks for inviting Jeannie and me on Carolyn’s journey into the arms of the Great Shepherd.

May we all rely on God’s sufficient grace as we exercise stewardship over pain (2 Cor 12: 7-10)

Rejoice evermore!

Tom Elliff

2 Tim 1: 12

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