For a number of years, my mother was in an abusive marriage. That was a really bad thing.
Eventually, after being brought to the brink of death, she escaped that relationship. That was a good thing.
But raising four kids alone in Los Angeles? That was brutal.
So, she moved us to Sacramento—a good thing.
I was expelled and had to transfer to a new school. Bad thing.
But in Sacramento, I became the new kid at school with long hair, no facial hair, and a tendency to wear feminine clothing (because… LA). I was bullied relentlessly. That was a bad thing.
Eventually, I was forced into a fight by a mob of teenagers. I won, not because I was tough but because I was terrified. The other kid ended up hospitalized. That was a really bad thing.
I was expelled and had to transfer to a new school. Bad thing. My mom had to buy me an electric bike to get to class. Bad thing—for her. But for me, that was a good thing. It gave me time to think.
At the new school, I made new friends—a good thing. But those friends thought it was a good idea to seek revenge on the kids from my old school. Two of them ended up stabbed. Horrible thing.
But then I met a girl. That’s always a good thing. Well, not always, but definitely this time.
As someone opens up a Bible study guide, they’re holding in their hands something that can be traced back to pain.
Her family was falling apart. Bad thing. She ran away from home to be with me. Bad idea. But her presence in my life? That was good because she introduced me to the glorious secret of the existence of God.
Then, my mom got cancer. Really bad thing.
And when she died, the pain was so overwhelming I had to do something with it. So, I started writing. At first, the writing wasn’t necessarily good, to put it politely. But it gave me an outlet, which was a good thing.
Words became an obsession. And over time, those words led me to start a publishing house that, as of today, has produced more than 762 million gospel publications in over 40 languages. Right now, as you read this, words I’ve written are being distributed by pastors, Bible workers, and evangelists around the world.
And as someone opens up a Bible study guide, they’re holding in their hands something that can be traced back to pain.
A string of broken, disjointed, and traumatic experiences that somehow—miraculously—led to hope.
Every step of the way, God was repurposing my pain.
And I believe He’s doing the same for you.
The apostle Paul says it like this in Romans 5:3–4, “Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope” (own italics added for emphasis).
Really, Paul? Can we glory in our sufferings? Do you have any idea about my suffering? Or anyone’s suffering?
God is not saying from His cosmic perch, “I want bad things to happen to you, so let me pull some strings.”
Paul does have an idea about suffering. Suffering, Paul says, strangely enough, is a workshop, if you will, that creates an outcome. Suffering can be productive.
Paul is not in any way suggesting that suffering in and of itself is, by its nature, good. What Paul is suggesting is that suffering, which is not good, produces outcomes that, if properly understood, we can glory in.
Now I am fully aware that I am saying things that are very, very difficult for a person who has suffered to wrap their mind around. I, right now, struggle to comprehend these ideas because of my own suffering. I am in no way, and Paul is in no way, making light of suffering.
Paul is also not saying that God is the source of our suffering. No, God is not saying from His cosmic perch, “I want bad things to happen to you, so let me pull some strings.” God is not the source of my suffering, but He does recycle my suffering into beautiful new things.
One step removed from the foundational equation of love, freedom, and risk, God knows what He can and can’t do in order to preserve love and freedom. And within that framework, He repurposes our pain into things we never could have seen coming.
How does it work?
Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor and psychotherapist, wrote a book titled Man’s Search for Meaning based on his horrific experiences in Nazi concentration camps for three years. It is a direct rebuttal to Freud’s claim that life has no meaning. Frankl said, “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”
In the camps, Frankl saw friends and neighbors turn into monsters under pressure. He also saw others become stunningly compassionate, loving, and patient.
The conclusion? Suffering doesn’t leave us the same. It’s a crucible, “a place or situation in which concentrated forces interact to cause or influence change or development” (Merriam-Webster).
Change occurs under pressure. You’re always in a becoming process. Every moment of your life, you’re morphing—ever so incrementally—into something new.
The question is never whether you will change.
You can become more empathetic. More sensitive to love. More willing to forgive. Less in need of enemies.
The question is: How will you be changed?
Will suffering harden you? Will it lead you to self-pity, bitterness, addiction to drama, or seclusion from others?
Or will it expand your capacity to love?
The prophet Isaiah once wrote that God can bring “beauty from ashes.”
In biblical language, ashes represent grief—deep, unspeakable grief. People would place ashes on their heads to express mourning. And yet, Scripture insists God is in the business of turning ashes into beauty.
Pain is the crucible of emotional development. External pressure can lead to internal expansion, if we let it.
You can become more empathetic. More sensitive to love. More willing to forgive. Less in need of enemies. You can become someone who’s no longer cynical, no longer bitter, but whose heart is tender and whose eyes tear up at another’s pain.
You can become like Jesus.
And when you do, your life becomes something new. It becomes something beautiful.
In one of my favorite songs, “Redemption” by Dan Haseltine, there’s a line that says:
We knew it as a wrong turn
We couldn’t know the things we’d gain
When we reach the other border
We look out way down past the road we came from
We’re looking for redemption
It was hidden in the landscape
I believe that one day, we will look back on our lives and realize redemption was hidden in the landscape all along. That bad thing created a set of circumstances for a good thing. The experience that nearly took me down developed a level of sensitivity that allowed me to love people in ways I never could otherwise.
You might not have chosen this path, but now you see, you’re not the same person you were.
God was and is repurposing your pain, every step of the way.
Ty Gibson
Ty is a speaker/director of Light Bearers. A passionate communicator with a message that opens minds and moves hearts, Ty teaches on a variety of topics, emphasizing God’s unfailing love as the central theme of the Bible. Ty and his wife Sue have three adult children and two grandsons.
