A Thousand Different Ways: Shouldering Pain and Grace

I heard a song this week I hadn’t heard before.

I think it’s an anthem of my life right now.
Maybe always—for a thousand different ways.

“Nothing is unseen
For You have walked the worst of it with me
At times, I almost didn’t make it through
Jesus if it hadn’t been for You.” Beautiful lyrics from Eliza King.

I have walked through some of THE worst of it, that’s for sure.

But I never did it alone. “The Healer has met me in all the mercies, in His kindness…pulled me from the death and darkness.”

There are a thousand different ways my life has not gone as planned. I could be the poster person for what it looks like when life doesn’t go according to plan.

But more importantly, I would rather be the poster woman for the thousand different ways God shows up with kindness and healing in the mess and wounds.

I know God sees what is unseen.

God sees what is unseen.

Heather lebano

Pain Upon Pain

I will admit, these last few weeks, I feel like Job more than ever; my life is forever a Psalm. Remembering the blog reflection, I wrote early in my grief journey last year:

“My life is a Psalm
Weeping and wailing.
Lamenting and grieving
Searching for laughter and moments of joy. 
Reaping and loosing with laughter in songs of joy.”

It is all connected. Like Job, we can still have faith in our suffering.

I am not feeling so joyful of late, though I DO find humor—often dark— in the ridiculousness of it all.

I am also finding grace and feel His abundant mercy.

I got a new sling on Sunday—an upgrade from the uncomfortable one I left the ER with late last Thursday night after spending more than half the day waiting for an X-ray, a bed, and treatment.

I dislocated my shoulder, likely fractured, maybe tore it—more answers to come. More waiting.

Just what I need—one more painful thing to face. I can do 6 weeks in a sling. My laundry and long to-do list will have to wait. Feels extra painful to have to navigate an ortho injury without my husband who worked in orthopedics for most of his life.

The Weight of Carrying

Wow, I thought I knew pain from the thousand other painful moments I lived through in my life. But that pain…and the long wait in a VERY crowded ER waiting room only made the pain I already carry worse.

So did the flashbacks of years of hospital memories.

Still, truth be told, even in the midst of the throbbing pain of my shoulder, I know that nothing compares to the loss of Jon. That pain—it’s a different kind of weight.

I am not sure much can compare. C.S. Lewis compared the death of a spouse to the loss of an arm. Fitting.

As I sit here in a sling, resting a dislocated shoulder, processing so much of the week and last few years, I’m reminded that the physical weight of our lives often mirrors the emotional burdens we bear. A shoulder might heal, but the things we carry on the inside—they take a little longer to mend. Especially loss.

I was a very “patient” patient, though (ask the hospital staff) in a lot of excruciating pain. I ask myself, though, how is that different from any other day—grief is an injury.

I had a lot of time to think of all the different ways I knew pain AND all the ways God met me in it. Every day, as I navigate through my physical pain and emotional burdens, I hold onto the truth that God has never abandoned me.

Even when I feel like I’m at the end of my strength, He carries me in ways I cannot always see.

I hold onto the truth that God has never abandoned me. Even when I feel like I’m at the end of my strength, He carries me in ways I cannot always see.

Heather Lebano

The Story of a Picture

When I took the picture with the new sling, I didn’t want to be in it. I really don’t want to be in pictures anymore. Marking moments feels different for me now, almost unworthy of being remembered. Maybe it’s the sadness I see in my smile, in my eyes, in myself.

I cannot explain it.

But I know this: some stories we are meant to hold close, while others we are meant to share—truthfully, lovingly, with voices that remind us why they matter. So others can learn and grow, too.

This dislocated shoulder is a story reminding me just how much I carry—how many small, everyday actions rely on the strength of that arm. Even the simple bearing of weight feels impossible right now.

But really, God carries me through it all.

I’m really annoyed that I can’t do my usual arm workouts right now—goodbye push-ups, hello feeling weak with a side of frustration. But I am guessing my leg game will be elevated as my shoulder heals, and my laundry piles will suffer even more. Trying to find the positive in a crappy, less than ideal moment.

I think of the broad shoulders phrase—the idea that some people are built to handle more? Yeah, that’s like telling a widow God only gives you what you can handle. I have had people say that to me—it causes more pain.

It’s probably best not to say that to a widow or any griever. Being told our loss shows us what we can handle is not helpful; that falls under the unkind platitude category. It dismisses the pain and suggests that one can handle the loss. Trust me, I cannot think of one widow in my growing circle of widows I know who can “handle” the loss of their spouse.

God did not give me the loss of my husband because He thought I could handle it. I know with certainty that’s not true. He meets me in that suffering and has carried me through it in a thousand different ways.

Death was never part of the plan. I digress.

But this isn’t just about what not to say to a widow or an excruciating dislocated shoulder injury (and come what may with it). It’s about all the weight I’ve been carrying for far too long and how I keep carrying it while in a sling. It’s about how we shoulder it all.

Jesus is the Sling.

This week, I have thought about carrying a lot. I think of the broad shoulders metaphor—the idea that some are built to handle more. But even the strongest shoulders need rest.

He sends others to be our slings, like our Simons of Cyrene.

The friends who show up, the ones who don’t ask questions but simply act. Like the friend who sat with me in the ER, pulling back the curtain just to be present. Or the ones who sent meals, checked in, and reminded me that I wasn’t alone. The ones who understood that my heart would be extra tender this week with Valentine’s Day—the Big LOVE—checked in without knowing that my shoulder—from that new injury—was tender, too.

There is something sacred about being carried.

Trust me, the wounded shoulder and carrying the cross are written throughout this story. Uniting to Christ’s suffering has taught me how to breathe through the pain.

I sat in that ER waiting room for hours, watching people—some were patient, others not so much—navigate their fears and uncertainties while waiting on uncomfortable chairs. I wrote about waiting a few years ago before I sat in so many waiting rooms with the most uncertainty about Jon’s diagnosis.

The Weight of Memory

Someday, maybe soon, I’ll finally publish those stories from hospital bathrooms and waiting rooms. And you will see a thousand different ways God has shown up in my suffering and others too. In hearing loss, in cancer, in a broken jaw, in death, in shattered relationships, in a dislocated and fractured shoulder.

Being back in the hospital stirred up a flood of memories—flashing red lights, the hum of beeping machines, the sterile white coats, the uncomfortable couches, and the long nights of waiting.

I sat in that ER and watched a family receive a familiar life-altering diagnosis, and my heart broke for them. Because I know this space—this fragile, aching, waiting space—far too well.

I did this all while recalling—dates, times, faces, details, turning point moments—every ER visit to that same hospital during a pandemic that forever changed our story.

Grief is a long walk with a “companion.” It never leaves. It ebbs and flows, intertwining itself with our daily lives into our memories. I lost so many people in my life to illness, death, and, sadly, abandonment in my greatest hours of need. I am surrendering and reconciling all of this.

And this sling? It’s another reminder. Jon spent the last year and a half of his life in a sling, unable to use his right arm again. As my daughters help me with simple tasks, we are brought back to how we cared for him.

It was our washing of the feet. It was where we lived the Passion and the Resurrection. It was where I met Jesus. Only He knows all the places His mercy has saved me—in a thousand different ways.

A Thousand Different Ways He Has Carried Me

I was in a hospital waiting room two years ago this week for a different reason. That time I slept on an uncomfortable couch after another crisis, another rapid response, another ER, another moment where life changed in an instant. I still carry all of those moments with me. I know it was the beginning of Jon’s decline that came much more quickly than I could have predicted.

And yet, somehow, I still stand.

God shows up in the brokenness, weakness, and moments when we think we cannot stand. His grace is always sufficient, even when the pain feels too great to endure, even with a new dislocated shoulder.

A Widow in a Sling.

So, the first photo? I took it to send to my kids of my fancy new sling. That photo inspired this whole reflection before I even heard the song. It speaks louder than I can. So many words and pieces of my life and heart are found in that photo right now.

Half my face, my arm wrapped in a sling for a shoulder that cannot take another thing, and a collection of moments that say more than words can hold.

An image of Jesus embracing a woman—because even when life unravels, I am held.

In the background, a photo of Jon and me—because love does not end, even when life shifts in ways I never saw coming.

A pillow with many hearts, because I am caring for so many, and so many, are caring for us.

And another that simply says love—reminders of what remains, even when so much has been lost.

And a chair made with fabric that reads “net weight”—because I know all too well the weight of carrying, enduring, and shouldering more than I ever thought possible. There are still soft places to land.

And even when I don’t feel like embracing this life that looks nothing like I planned, I hold onto this (note the word art.):

I have a voice.
A story.
A heart.
A laugh.
A love.
A life to live.

God has not finished writing my story, which includes a thousand different ways He cares for me and shoulders my burdens.

And each day, I begin again, made new by a Healer.

“Forever I am marked by the hands of a healer
He has it written across my face
Still greater’s been the work of Your Holy Spirt
By Your mercy I am born again.”

Eliza King

Marked by a Healer

He’s not finished writing your story either, even if you find that nothing has gone according to your plan.

I hope you find the same grace and mercy as you walk through difficult things. The Healer meets us in our wounds and pain. May you know He sees the unseen and never leaves you or forsakes you even in, especially in, the most desperate times.

When the weight of life feels unbearable, like a dislocated shoulder, something unexpected, the loss of a spouse or loved one, or a trauma too deep for words, I’ve learned that it’s OK to admit we’re not OK.

He’ll walk with you.

That simple truth is freeing because it allows space for God to step in where our strength fades. He’s always with us, walking the worst of it with us with His mercy and grace.

That simple truth is freeing because it allows space for God to step in where our strength fades. He’s always with us, walking the worst of it with us with His mercy and grace.

heather Lebano

For me, it’s been about finding the tiny moments that still carry joy—whether that’s laughter with my kids, the quiet presence of a friend sitting by my side, or the grace to acknowledge that some days, surviving is enough.

The burden doesn’t always lift, but I’ve learned to lean on the love around me—the ones who show up without needing answers, just offering their presence. And The Healer who has saved me in a thousand different ways. That’s how I press on, knowing that in each tear, each moment of surrender, God is still with me, still writing my story.

Meeting Him in the Midst of Suffering

There are moments in life when it feels like the weight of grief and pain will crush you—when you think you’re at the end of yourself, wondering how much longer you can keep going. For me, it’s not only the loss of Jon that still aches but even the more recent suffering with my shoulder.

The physical pain has come with frustrations, limitations, and moments of despair. Yet, I’ve come to see that these raw, vulnerable times—when I feel like I have nothing left—are the moments when I sense God’s presence most clearly.

It’s in the very lows, the places where we feel most abandoned, that He draws near. I’ve felt this in my grief journey, especially during Jon’s illness. There were times I couldn’t imagine how I would keep going when the weight of it all threatened to bury me.

But in those very moments—when I had nothing left to give—I felt a deep, sustaining comfort. It wasn’t the kind of comfort that came from anything earthly, but from His presence, right beside me, holding me up when I couldn’t stand.

And even now, with this new pain in my shoulder, I still feel that closeness. There are moments when the pain overwhelms me and the frustration seems endless, yet He—The Lord and Healer—is so close.

His presence doesn’t always come in grand gestures or miraculous moments but in the quiet, in the peace that shows up when everything else feels like chaos. When I feel like I can’t take another step, He’s there, reminding me I’m not alone.

I think that’s where true healing happens—not in the absence of pain, but in the nearness of God in the middle of it. His love meets us where we are, in our rawness, weakness, and surrender. It’s in those moments when I have nothing to offer. His strength is most evident.

When I feel like I’m drowning in grief or pain, He carries me. When I don’t have the words to pray, He whispers them for me.

God’s intimate, quiet nearness has become the truest form of healing in my life. And I’ve learned, more than ever, that I don’t have to be strong on my own—because He is with me, holding me, and in that, I am enough.

God is not finished writing my story. He’s not finished writing yours, either. And even though this chapter feels heavier than I ever imagined, I’m still here. And each day, I begin again. No matter the pain or the loss, I choose to press on. And as you read this, I hope you’ll remember: you’re not alone in your struggles either.

We walk this journey together, and we keep going. We begin again, one step at a time, while God shows me his mercy and grace in a thousand different ways.

“Still only You and I know all the places
You’ve met me in Your mercy, in Your kindness
You’ve saved my life a thousand times
In a thousand different ways
And I’ve never been the same.”

Eliza King