I’ve been given an opportunity to write a column twice per month for a new independent Rwandan newspaper, Focus. They don’t have a web site up yet, and we thought you might enjoy the articles so we’re posting them to our blog. Here’s the first one. - Dave

HEALING OFTEN REQUIRES HURLING A FEW STONES

“Well done, Mzee” seems to be the frequent words I hear as I do my daily runs in this region of Africa. A few seem to think a gray-bearded, running muzungu is impressive. I may even on occasion masquerade as an athlete. However, if you ever have the misfortune of seeing me naked, you’ll see three scars running along my spine from my rear end to my neck. I run because it is how I cope with pain.

Three times I have experienced the blessing of living in great physical pain. The first time I was only 29, and needed to walk with a cane to cope with the intense pain running down my leg. Another time, I lost feeling in my hand, and did not realize I had cut myself until I saw blood running off my hand. There are some things in life that are beyond our control. One of mine is just poor genetics. Men in my family typically live a long life, but struggle with the cartilage in our spines. Usually our 20s and 30s are spent struggling to overcome intense pain radiating from our backs. Thankfully, modern science can correct the problem with a surgery.

Even when the intense pain is gone there are always reminders. The scars never leave. I’m stiff every morning, and sometimes struggle to stand when I wake up. If my life gets just slightly out of order with too much stress, too little rest or either too few or too many physical challenges I’m back in pain. My coping mechanisms focus around exercise. If I don’t run, I really can’t find any earthly joy. My bottom line is that I hate pain therefore I run. It’s really not much of a choice. I don’t show my strength but my weakness in running.

I’ve lived in more physical pain than most men my age, but have learned that physical pain is much easier to cope with than emotional pain. No one can see the pain inside the human heart. Betrayal, injustice, despair and loneliness are no strangers to our human condition. Healing from these ruptures of our intended humanity is much more complex than the healing of our physical bodies.

I hesitate to speak about healing to a nation such as Rwanda. Who can see the pain inside the human heart? Each must carry a load that only he truly knows. Yet this pain is not the pain of an individual, but of a nation. Who can see this communal pain? What words could provide healing counsel for a nation? Who could dare speak?

All I can offer are the words and experiences of healing I have received. Maybe I can give a small measure of my own healing in hopes that the ointment others gave me may provide ointment for another.

Walking with a cane at the age of 29 was not fair. The best years of my life should not have been spent in pain. I had done nothing to deserve this pain. It was all the results of genetic misfortune. In fact, I had invested my life into the service of God. Surely, I should be one of the special ones protected from pain. I became an angry theologian, and no one enjoyed listening to one. Also, some within my Christian community are afraid to listen to those who question, argue, and even wrestle with God.

A wise friend suggested that I throw rocks at God. It sounds blasphemous. Aren’t we just supposed to fill our spirits with joyful platitudes and thankfulness? However, the idea was just too appealing. I found myself in a field throwing rocks at God. Now, he would pay for the pain he had caused me. Rock after rock I found I flung into the sky. He would feel my pain. I threw each rock as hard as I could with the intent to inflict pain. Yet all that happened was the rock fell back to the ground. In the end I was sweaty and exhausted. The only pain felt was the weariness in my arm.

In the stillness of exhaustion, I noticed a few things. The sun still burned. The grass was still green. It had rained recently, and the air was clean and cool. The soil was probably nearly the same as it was from creation. I could hear a bird sing. I realized my pain was almost irrelevant in the grand picture of life.

Life was about more than me.

So what does my experience of throwing rocks at God and healing from intense physical pain say to humanity’s problem of pain? First, healing is a process. There are no magical formulas. Sometimes intervention will solve a problem. Surgeries did that for me, but even the interventions left scars. Pain changes our lives in such a way that restoration to what was can never completely happen. However, maybe the point is not restoration of what was, but of what life can become? The scars serve as reminders and binders of strength.

Next, healing involves discipline. If I do not exercise I will return to a life of physical pain. There are no magic cures. Healing is about choices. I choose to start each day with a run, to rest when I am tired, and to say no to things that increase my stress to unmanageable levels. Again, no one knows the pain of the human heart, but we each know what discipline we must choose to heal. Is it personal responsibility, forgiveness, an investment in one’s self improvement or a compelling choice to make a difference in the lives of a future generation?

Lastly, God is big enough for us to throw rocks at him. In fact, he giggles at the smallness of our humanity. We cannot hurt his being. It is acceptable to wrestle and question. Healing can not come without the emotions of grief and anger, but yet as these emotions are released new ones of joy and contentment are found.

Come run with me.

Dave Jenkins is a coach masquerading as a pastor. He and his family lived in Uganda for more than a decade and they moved to Kigali in June 2005. Along with his pastoral duties, Mr. Jenkins is also teaching ethics at the Kigali Institute of Science and Technology. His greatest joys are a good cup of coffee, a rainy day and the laughter of his five children. He says he still can’t figure out why Jana married him.