Finding a Purpose (In Spite Of Living With Chronic Pain)

 Finding a Purpose (In Spite Of Living With Chronic Pain)

By:  a.d. elliott | Take the Back Roads - Art and Other Odd Adventures

Dear Henry,

I’m currently in the middle of a class on the Holy Spirit taught by Dave Pivonka called The Wild Goose. In one of the videos, Father Pivonka recounts a flight that had to be diverted when an unruly passenger locked themselves in the bathroom. The plane was forced to land, the passenger was removed by police, and the aircraft then had to reroute to refuel again. He used the story as a reminder of how quickly life can spiral out of control, and how, through the Holy Spirit, we are still called to speak to one another with love and kindness even when circumstances go sideways.

Immediately, I thought of the worst flight I’ve ever taken.

It was from Hawaii to Dallas, and I was wedged into the back of the plane between two large men, behind another who reclined his seat all the way for the entire eight-hour flight. By the time we landed, I was in so much pain that I nearly crawled off the plane. Despite compression socks, my legs had swollen alarmingly from being unable to move. It was miserable, and it was the last time I ever flew coach.

To ensure that never happens again, we now belong to the loyalty program, carry the credit card, and yes, even own stock in the airline.

Had someone on that flight locked themselves in the bathroom and extended the ordeal, I would have been sorely tempted to pull the door off and eject them midair, no Holy Spirit consultation required. Pain, and the relentless management of it, dictates many of my actions and far too many of my emotional responses. Too often, the only thing people hear from me is the sound of pain speaking. It isn’t kind. It isn’t fair. And while there are “reasons,” they are, as Joan Didion would remind us, largely beside the point once someone has been hurt.

My usual coping strategies are quiet ones: doodling or coloring while cycling endlessly through the Rosary, litanies, or, on especially bad days, Gregorian chant. The Hallow app has been a genuine gift, offering structure when my mind refuses to settle. None of this is wasted time, and I don’t resent it. The problem is that I was not called to religious life.

I was called to be a storyteller.

That calling was reaffirmed during a visit to the Woody Guthrie Center, but I often feel unable to rise to the task. It’s deeply frustrating, and I’m haunted by the sense that I’m squandering the miracle of my survival. I’ve been reading, praying, and talking with my pastor about this a great deal. I haven’t discovered any miraculous new methods of pain management. As an aside here: given my Church’s long history with stigmatics and redemptive suffering, I admit to some disappointment that there are no better tools on offer, but I have discovered something else.

I think I’ve been making too much of everything else and not enough of myself.

We are commanded first to love God with everything we have, and second to love our neighbor as ourselves. If I allow myself to become so uncomfortable that I can only respond to others from a place of pain rather than love, then I have failed the second commandment by failing the first person entrusted to me, myself.

There will always be times when I require accommodation. I can no longer afford to remain in spaces or relationships where that reality is treated as an inconvenience or a burden. Nor can I continue to give access to people who increase my pain. Becoming ruthless about boundaries has been one of the hardest and saddest parts of this season, but it has also been necessary.

As for productivity and purpose, I’ve long believed that God speaks through repetition and coincidence. Psalm 32:8—“I will instruct you and teach you the way you should go; I will counsel you with my eye upon you”—keeps appearing, uninvited and insistent. Perhaps that is my cue to stop obsessing over how my purpose will be fulfilled and to trust that it will be, even if it looks nothing like what I imagine.

My only real responsibility, then, is to make sure that when it happens, it happens with love.

xoxo a.d. elliott

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About the Author
a.d. elliott is a wanderer, photographer, and storyteller traveling through life

She shares her journeys at Take the Back Roads, explores new reads at Rite of Fancy, and highlights U.S. military biographies at Everyday Patriot.

You can also browse her online photography gallery at shop.takethebackroads.com.

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