Joy and Pain

Joy and Pain

If you grew up in the late eighties, the title of this article probably put a song in your head.

Joy and pain are like sunshine and rain.

I haven't heard that song in years, but this week it kept coming back to me. Because this week held both.

Beth is recovering from another surgery in her cancer journey. As I write this, I am grateful for good doctors, modern medicine, and the family and friends who have reached out to encourage us. I am also thankful that just last weekend we celebrated our first wedding anniversary and reflected on how kind God has been to bring us together for such a time as this.

At the very same time, I learned that two good men passed away. Jimmy and Brett were regulars at Dog and Duck in Park West back when I spent a few years hosting DJ Bingo and Music Trivia. They weren't my closest friends, but they were part of a season of my life. They were the kind of people who would walk in, grab a seat, laugh at a joke, tell a story, and make an ordinary evening feel a little more enjoyable. They were familiar faces, good men, and people I assumed I would eventually run into again.

Until one day, you don't.

When I was younger, I thought life happened in chapters. There would be seasons of joy and seasons of sorrow. Times of celebration and times of hardship. Victories would come, then setbacks would follow. Life seemed orderly, almost predictable. But somewhere along the way, life stopped cooperating with my categories. 

At fifty-six, I am discovering that joy and pain often sit at the same table. You celebrate an anniversary while helping your wife recover from surgery. You thank God for His faithfulness while waiting on pathology reports. You laugh at old memories in the morning and mourn people who will never make another memory by evening. You can feel deeply grateful and genuinely worried at the same time. You can be hopeful and uncertain. You can have peace and still struggle with fear.

And if we're honest, moments like these have a way of asking questions many of us spend years trying to avoid. Questions about meaning and purpose. Questions about what happens when the music stops, the crowd goes home, and life becomes quieter than we expected.

For some people, the answer is to pour another drink, tell another joke, stay busy, or find another distraction. I understand that impulse. Sitting quietly with grief, uncertainty, or disappointment is uncomfortable. It is much easier to numb ourselves than it is to examine what hurts. But eventually the drink is empty, the laughter fades, and the music ends. And the questions are still there.

I don't believe God is offended by those questions. I think He welcomes them. Jesus stood outside the tomb of Lazarus and wept, even though He knew resurrection was only moments away. He understood that death hurts, loss is painful, and people struggle to make sense of what seems unfair. Yet He also offered something that no bottle, no hobby, no career, and no amount of busyness can ever provide.

Hope. Not wishful thinking or pretending everything is okay. Not denying reality. Real hope.

Hope that believes death is an enemy, but not the final victor. Hope that believes our lives have significance beyond what we accomplish, accumulate, or leave behind. Hope that believes there is a God who entered into our suffering rather than watching it from a distance.

I don't know why Jimmy's story ended when it did or why Brett's chapter closed so soon. I don't know why cancer enters some homes and bypasses others. I don't know why some prayers seem to be answered immediately while others linger for years. But I do know this 

The same God who has carried Beth and me through this past year has proven Himself faithful again and again. He has met us in waiting rooms, hospital rooms, and quiet moments when our minds raced ahead to places they didn't belong. And perhaps faith isn't choosing between joy and pain. Perhaps faith is discovering that even when both arrive at the same time, we don't have to carry either one alone.

So tonight, I find myself grateful. Grateful for one year of marriage with a remarkable woman.

Grateful for another day together. Grateful for memories of Jimmy and Brett and laughter shared at Dog & Duck. Grateful for a Savior who understands sorrow and still offers hope.

Joy and pain.

It turns out the old song was right. Life usually gives us both. And by God's grace, somehow we learn to keep singing anyway.