Why Do We Hurt So Much?

"More than that, we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us."-Romans 5:3-5

   There's a river running deep inside me, a pang that stirs in circles, it cuts me to the core. This silent madness, this stirring of my soul, it's wandering through every hallway of my heart, as your words cut me fresh wounds, new scars that stand their ground.
   Like fingers hitting metal strings, over and over, wanting to give in to failure, longing for an easy way out, but there is none. Will I ever make the song? Will my hands ever become strong enough to push through the hurt and find triumph on the other side? I want to know, I don't want to just stand back and wonder, wonder what it might have been like if I had given it my all, if I had fought the good fight with zeal instead of cowering behind all of my fears, my growing, growing, fears.
       You tell me that the pain will come, whether I choose to face it or not, but why is that so hard for me to grasp? Why do we hurt so much? Why do I even ask this, when I know You've hurt worse for me, bleeding there on that tree? There has to be a purpose in all of this, some reason for all of this pain. Maybe my heart is like my hands, trying again and again to push against those strings, wanting so badly to taste the song, but all too frustrated and tired to get there. I know what it's like though, that gap in the end of the tunnel. There's nothing sweeter than the taste of that air, when I come up from those waters, those raging, violent waters.
    It makes me wonder, in a way, would I really know it's joy, the fullness of that kind of peace, if I hadn't been tied so deep underneath that storm? Maybe the torment is more than necessary. Maybe we hurt so that we can hear the song.

Walls

I'm stacking bricks and laying wet cement. I feel less of this kind of pain. The daggers aimed towards me are hitting the walls, just as I had planned. I build the walls stronger, taller and soon I can barely hear their snide remarks. They can't reach me, burn me, if I keep them at a distance.

I'm putting in the ceiling now, filling every empty space between the bricks with the wet cement. I wait and watch it dry. The last of the setting sun leaks through the little hole that I've left for air, but then something happens, it goes dark. I look for a way out, come to my feet as fast as I can, panicking and searching for a door, surely I must have thought to build a door.
There is no way out, no light left coming through the little hole that I've left. I seat myself against the walls that I built, staring blankly into every crevice, where the wet cement dries stale. I've blocked out all their voices, shielded myself from their blows, but now I am my own prisoner and I've worked too hard at this point to find my way out.

I'm content at this point, becoming use to the idea of of a closed heart, but there are days when I doubt my own logic. It's all well and good in the night, when I fear the thought of the unknown, all the possibilities of hurt that keeps me here inside these walls, but in that moment when the sun leaks through, when the scent of blossoms drifts its way into that little hole and I hear the birds calling to each other back and forth in the distance...those are the times when I want to rip these walls back down to dust. If I want to really taste the good, all of it, in its full, then I'd have to open up, I'd have to risk.

There are parts of me that still crave that, a life without fear, but most of my insides tell me that its a bad idea, that I'll regret it and so I listen. I listen to that voice. I listen to that voice because its easy, but there is always a hole, an almost door left open where all the good still leaks in and I carry it with me, pretending to be a calloused heart, giving off the impression that all these walls are strong, that they will hold after any storm, but soon it will come out again, the walls will break down and I'll stand to my feet again, replacing bricks with new cement, putting fresh shields over scars, because I couldn't stop the hope from slipping through.

The walls become harder to maintain, because as each day dawns with the song of the morning, the hole lets in a little more light and subconsciously I am keeping it there, I am nurturing it like a little plant, making room for it to grow and little by little, when my back is turned, the foundation begins to crack and my walls don't just break, they are being broken, broken by Your strong hands that are finding a way to soften my almost calloused heart.