Fear and trepidation.  And, some pain.

It’s what I feel right now.  At the dinner table yesterday (with witnesses present) mentioning the title, I suggested I would be writing this piece soon.  A couple of the individuals at the table had no idea what the first word in the title meant.

So, I did it.  I tried not to, but when you know things, it just happens without you wanting it to.  The words come out and, intended or not, they sound condescending.

I won’t give you the definition of the word.  If you don’t know you’ll want to look it up.  Try Google.  You can find a lot of information there.

Oh.  I did it anyway, didn’t I?

As I said.  Fear and trepidation.  For good reason.

I want to talk about the pain today.  Specifically (at least to begin with), men’s pain.

I know.  Again and again, I see the snippy remarks that men can’t handle pain.  I get it.  Compared to the pain of childbirth that women experience, most men will never feel real pain.

And, we can be crybabies.  We can.  At home, at least.  But, that’s our safe place, the haven where we can admit what hurts and expect some sympathy from the person standing in front of us.

Somehow, our significant others seem (to us anyway) specially equipped to care and make us feel better.  Softly and gently, they have ways to ease the pain, whatever it is.

I wonder if that’s why it’s widely believed (especially by our partners) that men can’t handle pain.  Again and again, we prove it to them.  At home.

But—and here’s where more mansplaining comes in—in public we’re famous for biting the bullet, for gritting our teeth and working through the pain.

Don’t believe it?  I can attest to the facts myself.

I have a little pain to endure myself, a spinal issue brought on by too many years of moving pianos and lifting with my back instead of my knees.  I’ve been going through a flare-up for the last few weeks.

There is pain.

At home, I have no compunction about showing the result of the pain—groaning loudly when turning over in bed, yelping when a spasm surprises me without warning.  I stand from my easy chair like an old man, straightening my back by degrees before walking to my destination, complaining the while.

In public, I walk the half mile to the coffee shop or to the nearby university, upright and without limping.  No one would know the pain the effort costs.  I can carry your box or mow your lawn.  Ask me.  You’ll see.  I’ll not have folks thinking I’m a cripple or a wimp.

Hiding the pain; putting on a happy face.

The other day, we headed to our daughter’s place for a visit with our grandchildren.  (Oh, and with her and our son-in-law.)

The trip was also so we could enjoy creation in its Autumnal glory.  We were not disappointed in either of our purposes

Our kids live on a mountainside in the beautiful Ozark mountains.  We parked down in the valley and made the trek up the steep incline to their home, nesting far up above in the woods, ablaze in color.

“Let us bring the side-by-side down for you, Grandpa!”  The kids would have been happy to haul me up effortlessly in the four-wheel-drive vehicle.

But, I was having none of it.  I inched my way up, stopping frequently and picking my steps gingerly, stooping as I walked on the rocky ground to ease the pain.  But, as soon as any of the kids came into view, I straightened up and walked firmly up the rest of the way, leaving no hint that I was experiencing any pain.

Heroic, aren’t I?

You wouldn’t have thought so, the day before.  I spent that day in my easy chair.  The Lovely Lady scurried past me again and again, intent on completing goals she had set for herself.

Normally I have a few goals, too.  Yet, they were forgotten until I noticed she was sweeping the floor in the dining room.

“That’s my job!  Why are you doing that?”  I’m sure I sounded pitiful when I said it.  I actually intended to sound stern.

Her answer came as she moved out of view, continuing to sweep the broom across the hardwood floor.

“I’m not having you hurting your back more.  If you do, I’ll never get you up that mountain at the kids’ place!”

She’s right.

I would do it.

I’d stay home before I would let the grandchildren put me in that SxS and haul me up the mountain like an old man.

So, I sat back in my easy chair, letting her sweep the floor, vacuum the carpet, and fold laundry.  I’m sure I moaned a little once in a while to let her know I didn’t want to be there but had no choice.

The reader has, no doubt, realized that a good bit of what I’ve written above has been somewhat tongue-in-cheek.  And I’m sure I am also fluent in mansplaining—never meaning to but practiced nonetheless.

Perhaps I can take a moment to be serious here.  I do have a question or two.

Why are we so foolish?

Why can we not admit to any but our closest confidants that we are in pain and need help?

I spoke with a new friend in the coffee shop this morning and wondered about this aloud.

She suggested it may be that we’ve been hurt by those we should be able to trust.  She also suggested that we have One we know we can trust with our pain.

Something sounds familiar here, doesn’t it?

He sees us.  He sees our pain.  He also hears our groaning and crying.

I’m reminded that Hagar experienced them both.  In her story in the book of Genesis, she’s been abused by her mistress Sarai, for whom she underwent the ordeal of surrogate childbearing, so she flees into the wilderness.  Weeping over her plight, God comes to her.

He hears her! Her son will be named Ismael, which means God Hears.

Not only that, He sees her!  In her despair and pain, He sees.

Her.

“So Hagar named the Lord who spoke to her, ‘You are the God who sees me,’ for she said, ‘Here I have seen one who sees me!'”
(Genesis 16:13, NET)

El Roi, she called Him.

God Sees.

Me.  You.  Us.

Masks come off.  Hearts laid bare.  Sickness, pain, and sins exposed.

He doesn’t leave us that way, though.

Abraham knew.  He experienced it.  And, he named the place he experienced it Jehovah Jireh. (Genesis 22)

God Provides.

What we need, He provides.  When we need it.

It’s hard for us to be transparent with people we don’t know.  So we hide our pain.

I’m wondering if it’s time to come clean.  Time to ride up the hill in the side-by-side.

Maybe even time to limp when it hurts.  Or to shed a tear when the pain overcomes.

No more mansplaining.  No more play-acting.

Oh.  The view from the mountaintop is spectacular, too.

Even with an aching back.

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.