Gratitude in the Face of Pain

Photo by Gianni-Zanato on Unsplash

Two summers ago, when I attended a young writers’ conference, the discussion arose of “light shining brightest in the darkest places.” The same idea came up at the same conference this past summer: one candle will stand out better in the darkest of valleys than it will when sun fills the valley.

When we write, it’s tempting to make the characters be perfect people so that “they’re likeable.” For some writers, it’s hard to make the story world painful, difficult, and seeped with conflict. Some writers can’t bear to hurt their babies, and for me it’s hard because it means more work in writing.

But it’s in the darkest of places that the small bits of goodness shine brightest.

I recently heard a story of a woman named Rebecca who was forced to flee South Sudan when she was six years old. The reason? She was a follower of Jesus. Both of her parents were killed, hyenas ate her best friend while trekking through the desert, and she saw violence that no human should bear, much less a child. It’s not a surprise that she cried as she told her story.

At the end of her recount, Rebecca prayed and as she prayed, the tears continued to come. But she thanked God. Over and over, she thanked Him for His beauty, she thanked Him for the beauty in the world, and for the beauty that will come in Heaven.

Her life was anything but beautiful. It was bloody and nauseating. But the love she had in her heart for Jesus Christ compelled her to gratitude. She saw beyond the gore. She saw the God who took care of her, who loved her, and who made beautiful things in this world and the world to come.

Not too long ago, I watched the movie, Unbroken, that follows the life of Prisoner of War, Louie Zamperini, whom I mentioned in last week’s post, Faithful in Little, Faithful in Much. I walked away from that movie grateful for small things. Running water was one of the more obvious ones, but cool, fresh air was another.

Zamperini spent time locked in a cramped cell, his own body filthy, sweaty, and bleeding. Though not mentioned in the film, it had to smell awful I’m sure. When I went outdoors the next morning after watching the movie, the crisp air greeted me, and I felt an unusual gratefulness for something as simple as fresh air. The same went for showers and a clean bed.

Those things are small, but the darkness—the discomfort—highlighted the goodness of simple pleasures, of simple comforts.

As far as Rebecca goes, her ability to see past the brutality to the beauty highlighted the realness of her love for God. Her thankfulness amid the difficulty illuminated the beauty of overcoming.

Darkness in story, the hard things in the pages of your novel, short story, or poem serve as a backdrop for the splendor of the simple things. As you write, think about the things you can juxtapose in a “show, don’t tell” manner. How can you bring out the smallest bit of good, even in the darkest holes? How can you help readers and story characters alike to see past the dark to the dawn? How can you highlight the goodness and fill your readers with gratitude in the face of pain?

And finally, as Thanksgiving Day approaches this week, I want to challenge you to find something simple that you’re truly grateful for, no matter how difficult your surrounding circumstances may be.

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Darkness in story serves as a backdrop for the splendor of the simple things.

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