Physical ailments, even small ones, as annoying as they are, can serve us well, reminding us of our limitations, opening the door for growth in humility.
In weakness, we find the source of true strength.
The precise point where I sometimes feel threatened pinpoints that place where pride has metastasized in my spiritual physiology. It doesn’t take much pain for me; I’m a wimp when it comes to discomfort. Not long ago, one of those little annoyances grizzled at me. This time it was the tendon between my index finger and thumb. At least, I guessed it was a tendon. Lori told me it was probably arthritis, “You know it will get worse with age,” she diagnosed. “You might as well get used to it.”
So I ignored it and continued my regular workout routine. “Work through the pain,” I heard the voice of my high school football coach saying in one ear, and “Take two salt pills and drive on,” my wrestling coach was saying in the other. Though their voices are almost fifty years old, they still speak, sometimes loud and clear.
“Okay, coach, I’m on it.”
But the pain only got worse.
I came home after my grandson’s baseball game. “I’m parched,” I told Lori as I downed a glass of ice water. When she asked me why, I had to admit that my hand was so tender that I couldn’t twist open the water bottle I had taken to the game.
The voice I heard later that night wasn’t Lori’s or a ghost from the past. It was me talking to myself.
At 3 a.m., I heard myself say.: “If I can’t open a water bottle, how can I plant my garden? And if I can’t plant my garden, what will I say when my kids and grandkids ask me why I left the tilled ground fallow? “Where’s the plants?” they’ll ask. And I’ll have to tell them. They’ll bend over laughing, “Dad didn’t plant his garden because his finger hurts. Then the grandkids will chime in, shaking their heads: “PopPop sure is OLD.” Then everyone, including Lori, will say, “We sure will miss the ripe tomatoes, fresh squash, and crispy cucumbers.” And I’ll be sad, holding my lame finger, rumpled up in a rocking chair.
The early morning conversation with myself escalates. By 4 a.m., I’m asking, “How can I exercise with weights if I can’t even plant a garden? How can I do bicep curls if I can’t hold weights? And if I can’t even do bicep curls, how can I do pushups and shoulder shrugs? If I can’t train with my weights my arms will start atrophying. Then, my entire upper body will shrink while my stomach bloats. Soon I’ll be slumped over, my entire body the epitome of deterioration, like an abandoned house with a sagging roof and buckling walls.”
All because of a compromised index finger.
In the spiritual realm, it’s not a fit and vigorous body that connotes strength. It’s weakness, expressed through the virtue of humility, that translates into spiritual power. Paul the Apostle said of himself, “Whenever I am weak, then I am strong.” Paul’s admission of his weakness and fragility was the key to Christ’s power being perfected in the Apostle. (2 Corinthians 12:9-10).
For some people, it takes a ding in the pocketbook; for others, it’s a poor peer review. Some people look away in shame when they glance in the mirror. And some are threatened when the boss passes them over for a promotion. The possibilities for humiliation are as myriad as our personalities are complex.
The question is, do we face ourselves—weaknesses and all—humbling ourselves before someone or something does it for us, seeing emotional or physical pain as an opportunity for spiritual growth? Or will we walk the plank of denial until, at last, we plunge into a sea of self-delusion?
After a few doses of Ibuprofen and several days of rest, my hand was better; I was back into my weekly workout routine.
But not before I had dove a bit deeper, mindful that my circumstances, whether a lame finger or an aging body, do not define who I am. They repeatedly remind me of my weaknesses so that I am learning daily to lean more completely into Christ, buoyed by His Spirit—the source of my strength.