A Purpose for Pain
Afternoon Moment
There is something sacred about the afternoon pause. By this time of day, the world has already placed its hands upon us—work has demanded attention, decisions have been made, distractions have multiplied, and fatigue has begun to settle in around the edges. It is often in the stillness of an afternoon break that we begin to feel the weight of unspoken fears, lingering questions, and hurts that did not arrive today but quietly traveled into today with us. This is why a moment with the Lord in the afternoon can become a refuge—a quiet place where He reshapes our perspective, reminds us of His nearness, and renews us for the hours ahead.
Today’s meditation draws from Ephesians 3:14–21, where Paul prays for the strengthening of the inner being, and Psalm 71:20, that remarkable confession of resilience: “You, who have shown me great and severe troubles, shall revive me again and bring me up again from the depths of the earth.” Here is a theology bold enough to carry wounded hearts: God does not waste pain. He redeems it, revives us through it, and uses it to lift us—again and again—into deeper fellowship with Himself.
Corrie ten Boom understood this far more intimately than most. In her book A Prisoner and Yet Free, she recounts her time in a World War II concentration camp, including the moment she was placed into solitary confinement. The cell was gray, barren, and suffocatingly silent. She describes being pushed in, hearing the steel door shut behind her, and suddenly feeling the unbearable weight of isolation. The storm outside howled, rattling the door as if unseen forces were beating against it. Fear rose within her—sharp, immediate, suffocating. She pleaded with the Savior to take away her desolation.
And then something happened. Not loudly, not dramatically—but gently. Peace entered her heart. The noises did not cease. The darkness did not lift. The cold, hard reality of her surroundings did not change. But she changed. The Lord met her in that solitary cell, and fellowship with Him became more intimate than she had ever known. Later she would write, “It was dark in my cell, but I talked with my Savior. Never before had fellowship with Him been so close.”
Her testimony reminds us that the presence of Christ is not limited by the conditions of our circumstances. Even in grayness, loneliness, or fear, Christ enters the place where pain resides and transforms what could crush us into a place of communion.
This is not a romanticizing of suffering. Pain is real. Hardships are sometimes severe. Psalm 71:20 does not pretend otherwise—it acknowledges “great and severe troubles.” Scripture never diminishes pain, but it insists that pain does not have the final word. The psalmist declares that the same God who allowed him to experience trouble is the God who will revive him, lift him, restore him, and breathe new strength into his weary bones.
Perhaps this afternoon finds you in a place you didn’t expect—emotionally, physically, spiritually. Maybe you’re carrying a private burden while handling public responsibilities. Maybe the exhaustion is deeper than physical tiredness—it’s soul-deep. And maybe, like Corrie on that cold mattress, you find yourself needing a Savior who does not merely observe your pain but enters it with you.
Paul’s prayer in Ephesians 3 speaks directly into this moment. He prays that God would strengthen believers “with power through His Spirit in the inner being” and that Christ would dwell in their hearts through faith. The phrase “inner being” is intentional. While our circumstances may not change by this evening, God can strengthen the core of who we are—our courage, our hope, our endurance, our trust. Pain may shape us, but it does not define us. God defines us. And He is shaping us through pain into people who know His love more deeply.
Notice also that Paul prays believers would “grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ.” Pain often narrows our vision; Christ widens it. Pain makes us feel small; Christ enlarges our capacity to receive His love. Pain isolates; Christ draws near. The love of Christ is not superficial comfort—it is deep, sustaining power.
Corrie ten Boom discovered that even a solitary cell cannot separate the believer from the love of Christ. You will discover the same truth in your own way and in your own season. The details of your suffering may differ, but the faithfulness of the Lord remains unchanged. If He can fill the emptiness of a prison cell with peace, He can certainly fill the quiet space of your afternoon with His renewing presence.
And here is something else worth remembering: God often uses the very places of our deepest pain to become the greatest testimonies of His grace. Corrie’s testimony has reached millions. She did not ask for suffering, but she surrendered it. And because she did, thousands have come to know the healing and saving power of Jesus Christ.
Your life, too, carries influence you may not yet see. Your courage in hardship, your trust in the valley, your faith in the long night—these may become the very things God uses to bring hope to someone else. Pain is never wasted when placed in the hands of Christ.
So as you return to the work of the day, let this afternoon moment settle your heart: God sees your pain, redeems your pain, and will revive you again. What you are experiencing today may one day shine as a light for others who walk the same path. You are not abandoned. You are being held. And the Savior who met Corrie in her darkness is the same Savior who meets you in yours.
May this break in your day not simply be a mental pause but a spiritual rest—one in which Christ reminds you that He is with you, He is for you, and He is working through you.
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