The following is an excerpt from “Silent September” by Joyce Landorf Heatherley. My initial reaction upon reading it was, I could have written this myself.
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Pain has scraped away
the last visible traces of hope
off the edges of my soul.

So begins my personal journey of pain, in the early months of 1982. It continues with,

Naively I always think that pain can do nothing more to me. Yet I am always wrong.

There is a certain amount of head knowledge within me that says someday the Lord, in His mercy, will step in and stop this hideous round of pain, which is attacking on a never-ending basis. Isn’t that what a loving heavenly Father would do? Yet here, in my heart, I cannot see, hear, touch or feel God; and the silence of my life is deadly. God seems to be doing nothing – nothing at all.

Continually I rationalize that after pain has robbed, raped, and smashed the courage and hope out of me, it will have spent its fury – like the last gusts of wind from a retreating thunderstorm. Often I fantasize that since pain has devoured so much of me already, my dues into the I’ve-suffered-enough-account have been paid in full, and there will be no need for further payment. Or, I think, at least pain will lessen the force of its rage and give me some respite from its devastation.

But, it seems I tend to underestimate the enormous penetrating power of pain. I minimize the tenacity of its excruciating grip. Somehow I hold tightly to the crumb of hope which says maybe, just maybe, I’ll be mysteriously and miraculously given the grace and strength of God to go on, in spite of these crushing encounters.

Yet, with each new day pain swoops down like a huge demolition crane, swinging and smashing its steel and concrete ball of destruction against the flimsy walls of my battered body and soul. I’m left shattered, broken, without a shred of hope.

I am no novice in walking the paths of pain. And I am no stranger to climbing the mountains of grief suffering. But this – this I do not understand, for suddenly I am aware that I don’t hear the music anymore.

I’m a nightingale with broken wings. I’m a nightingale without a song. Oh yes, it’s true that I’m a born “night-singer” – one who can sing the sweetest songs of God, even in the darkest dead of night. But now, I don’t hear the music of God or His angels; and I am frightened… alone… and hurting unbearably.

Someone told me today that they see a light at the end of my tunnel of pain. Someone else said that I should rejoice in my “tunnel experience” for tunnels are the only way to get through the mountains to one’s destination. And often, along our journey in life, tunnels provide lessons and opportunities for growth. But, as another friend pointed out, there is a light at the end of my tunnel; however, it happens to be the headlight of a train which is coming straight at me, 100 miles an hour! The only lesson I’m learning here is that I’m going to be flattened like a pancake by this growing “opportunity.” My soul panics at the scenario.

My life is consumed by my search for medical solutions, for emotional enlightenment, and for theological explanations. But answers seem in very short supply. How many more mornings will I wake up hearing David’s words, “This is the day the Lord hath made…” and then feel the icy grip of pain’s reality remind me just what kind of a day it will be?

I am also angry! And not just for me, but for millions of others. This is unfair. It’ s unjust. It’s undeserved!

Is it conceivable that God stands passively by my bed of pain and says, “Of course I can heal you, Joyce, but I wont”? If this is true, then I am going to have a difficult time loving, trusting or accepting this heavenly Father. It seems there is a theory that says God can heal me, but because I am doing something which blocks His will from being accomplished, He won’t. This crushes all hope within me and God begins to sound remarkably like some earthly fathers I’ve observed. Fathers who could say “I love you,” but won’t. Fathers who could affirm and encourage their children, but won’t. This comparison between a heavenly Father and an earthy one becomes increasingly disturbing to me.

Or, does God sit on the edge of my bed when I am writhing in the highest level of pain – just before insanity – when I am crying out to be rescued and, at that fragile moment in time, calmly say, “My child, I want everybody well, including you, but Joyce, you’re doing it all wrong. You need to read the instruction manual. You need to claim the right formula. You need only to follow the ten easy steps to healing”?

On the other hand, would the God I love and serve be chastising me by allowing this pain? Is He teaching me a lesson? What kind of father punishes his child when the child is not disobedient? What kind of father goes on teaching a painful lesson long after the child has learned it?

I don’t know where to turn for help anymore. The darkness is too deep, and the God-silence is too great. I am isolated, lonely, untouchable. Worst of all, because I can’t hear the music of God anymore, I feel like an abandoned orphan. Maybe someday someone will come along and rescue me, adopt me, and hold me in their arms of love until the pain subsides. But who? I’ve sung and written the music of God for thousands of others. Won’t anyone now sing for me? Won’t anyone bind up what pain has broken and help me hear the music once more?