Day 162

Song of Solomon 7–8 | 2 Corinthians 1:1–11

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Yesterday was long.

Four hours to San Francisco.

Four hours in pre-op, surgery, and recovery.

Four more hours to get back home.

Today, it’s already time to start therapy.

The kind that comes with cracking and bleeding.

The kind they tell you will be “excruciating” like they’re forecasting the weather.

The kind that makes you question whether progress is even worth it.

But it’s not the pain I’m dreading most.

It’s the fragility that comes with it.

The vulnerability of needing help washing the left side of my body because my right hand can’t get wet.

Of asking my wife to open the pill bottle.

Of wincing in front of my daughter when I have to wait for someone else to cut my entrée.

Of feeling like less than I was when this all started.

Again.

That’s why Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 1 hit so deep today.

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction…” (v. 3–4)

Not Just Any Comfort

He’s not talking about sentimental comfort.

Not a pat on the back. Not a “hang in there.”

But the kind that enters affliction.

The kind that stays through the bleeding.

The kind that isn’t scared off by scars or setbacks or weakness that lingers longer than expected.

God doesn’t comfort from a distance.

He comforts in the middle.

He’s the Father of mercies—plural.

Because He doesn’t run out.

And He’s the God of all comfort.

Which means there is no version of suffering where He is absent.

No category of grief or fear or post-op agony He can’t touch.

What If This Pain Isn’t Just for Me?

Paul goes on:

“…so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” (v. 4)

This pain isn’t just mine to carry.

It’s mine to steward.

When someone else breaks down—emotionally, physically, spiritually—I can do so much more than offer cheap clichés. I can offer scars.

Scars that say I’ve been there. And God was there, too.

He didn’t always heal fast.

He didn’t always answer loud.

But He always comforted.

Through quiet mercies.

Through the prayers and encouragement of friends.

Through a friend who replies to my “I’m incredibly anxious” text with quiet Scripture:

Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.

Through a peace that didn’t make sense, but didn’t let go.

That’s the comfort I want to pass on.

Not cheap empathy.

Resurrected empathy.

When the Healing Still Hurts

The doctor says I’ll regain more function.

And I’m thankful. I really am.

But healing still hurts.

The stretching.

The stiffness.

The swelling.

The slowness.

And maybe that’s the part no one talks about: That God’s comfort doesn’t always come by removing the pain.

But it always comes when He bears it with you.

By proving He’s greater than your worst day.

And if you’re carrying your own pain today—whether it’s physical or emotional, fresh or lingering—let me say this as one who still can’t make a fist but can see it on the horizon:

You are not alone.

You are not forgotten.

And the God of all comfort sees you.

He doesn’t demand strength.

He invites surrender.

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Lord, You are the God of all comfort. Not just some. Not just for the strong. But for the weak, the weary, the ones who can’t grip what they used to hold. Thank You for not rushing my healing. For entering the pain instead of avoiding it. Use even this slow recovery for Your glory. And for every reader in their own affliction today—be near. Be present. Be enough. Amen.