Every day, I fight an invisible battle.
The battle began when I was eight years old. My eyes blurred, and I saw black speckles dance. Something punched me, sucking away every bit of my strength. I couldn’t move, not even my mouth wide enough to cry. Something like a strong hand squeezed every breath from my lungs, crushing my chest.
I followed the dancing speckles into a black hole.
In middle school, this invisible hand pulled more often and more firmly, and I struggled to stay on my feet. Literally. Yet few believed in its existence. I responded by learning to fight, not against unbelievers, but against myself. I learned to fight this hand that supposedly did not exist, to resist its pull on my legs, arms, lungs, and eyes. And I did manage to stay on my feet—but at a cost. The hand made a bargain with me. I could stay on my feet and avoid the critical looks and words of others, but, in exchange, it demanded I give up physical play. If I ignored the deal and ran like other kids, the hand caught me.
In high school, the hand squeezed me even more often and intensely, demanding more concessions. In addition to limiting how much I could walk, it took my tongue. Although I could stand with my friends, sometimes my words slurred and staggered. Then, it also demanded my ears and mind. If a teacher called on me and I fought to comprehend, the hand might find me after class. If I fought to think and respond, I might find myself tied to my bed the next day.
In my first few years of college, I resisted the hand every day. About every other month, it locked me in my room for a week.
At age twenty, I finally learned the name of the invisible hand: Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS).
One doctor explained, “Your body does not balance blood vessel constriction and heart rate response. So, under stress, particularly standing, your blood pressure drops. Then, blood pools in your legs and cannot reach your brain. Then, you drop.”
No cure.
While I struggled with POTS, I also attended church. I observed Christians trying to reconcile a chronically suffering child with a good God. One well-meaning but particularly damaging message I received was, “God does this to you for His glory.” Few people said the words this plainly. More often, a twisted Scripture came from a far-off pulpit: “Count your trials as all joy because God gets Himself glory from it!” What I heard was that God benefited by being the author of my pain.
So, whenever the invisible hand came to beat me to the floor or tie me to my bed, I thought that hand belonged to God. I thought He enjoyed torturing me. I thought this meant I needed to grit my teeth, put on a mask, and smile.
Thankfully, other Christians spoke to me with words that accurately interpreted God’s Word. They prayed for healing and encouraged me to believe that if God’s plan included freedom, He would accomplish it (James 5:14-15). These believers reassured me I could remove my mask: “Have you taken time this week to grieve your losses and lament to God? I will lament with you.” These friends pointed me to the Bible’s many passages of lament, such as Psalm 38.
These believers comforted me with the hope of God’s sovereignty and love, saying, “God promises to work all this suffering out for your good” (Romans 8:28). They encouraged me to seek to discern the Lord’s purposes: “I wonder how you will grow in your character and walk with God because of these trials?” (Romans 5:3-5). They encouraged me to learn from other Christians: “Paul called his suffering a thorn; what do you think of his story?” (2 Corinthians 12:7). They challenged me to pray over my concerns and questions: “Have you sought the peace of the Lord?” (Philippians 4:6-7).
Finally, they reminded me of my glorious future: “I praise the Lord that one day, one way or another, God will do away with all your suffering” (Romans 8:18).
Allow me to proclaim this truth: God authors no evil. Psalm 145:17 says, “The Lord is righteous in all his ways and loving toward all he has made.” He weeps with those who weep. Every painful thing He permits will result both in His surpassing glory and our glorious flourishing. God has good plans for us now and forever. We have certain hope “He will wipe every tear from [our] eyes” (Revelation 21:4).
Sisters, one day, we will experience an eternal weight of glory so incredible that our present sufferings will seem small to us by comparison.
The story of my life declares,
God. Is. Good.
—Karyssa Allen is a freelance writer and speaker.
Photo by SANKALP SURADKAR on Unsplash
