Worship through Suffering | Lynda Dietz

Bad things happen.

What we do with our suffering determines which direction we go from that point. We can choose to wallow in our circumstances, which usually stops us from being able to move forward. We can ignore the suffering, which really only prolongs having to face reality. Or we can take the defeatist attitude that this is our lot in life and we’d better just accept that nothing will ever improve.

Or . . . we can look at our situation and choose joy. Yep, that’s right: joy. Can you look around you and judge who has gone through trials and who hasn’t, based solely on their attitude or their countenance? I think many people would be surprised to know that some of the most joyful people haven’t always had a joy-filled life. But they’ve chosen where their focus should be, and it’s not their past or current circumstances.

This doesn’t mean we pretend those things don’t exist, or that they don’t affect us. Honesty requires that we acknowledge when we’re hurting or angry—in fact, if we don’t acknowledge it, we rob ourselves of the opportunity for God to show us his comfort and mercy. But choosing joy through our suffering is essential to staying strong, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

Choosing joy in the midst of pain

When we had our third child, my husband and I were told that he had a chromosomal condition called Trisomy 13. The basics boiled down to the fact that having a third chromosome of any number causes problems in the body, and in our son’s case, it caused severe to profound retardation, physical deformities that were visible, internal/structural organ damage, and a bleak outlook for life expectancy.

The first slap of reality was not bringing him home from the hospital when I was discharged. Coming home without the baby we’d excitedly left to deliver only a few days before was difficult, to say the least. Learning all the statistics surrounding his condition could have dragged us down. After all, the NICU doctor was less than helpful, constantly pushing us to modify and lessen what she was required to do to keep him alive. She saw him as a burden who would only prohibit our other children from living the full and happy life they deserved.

We pushed back with the only thing we had: our reliance on God. It may have been one of the first times in our lives that we weren’t able to be strong for each other. I taped a little index card on our son’s incubator crib with Nehemiah 8:10 written on it: “And do not be grieved, for the joy of the LORD is your strength.”

I knew that contextually, this verse was meant for the Israelites during a specific event in their history, but for me, in the present day, it was a reminder that God and only God could give us the strength we needed. I brought a little cassette player with me when I visited and quietly played praise and worship music to remind me of the way God keeps his promises.

Over the almost-five years of our son’s life, we experienced so many valleys we never thought we’d emerge from intact. And yet, when we focused on the everyday joy during that same time, the lows didn’t seem quite as relevant as the highs. The almost-daily emergencies were counteracted by what others might take for granted: we still found time to laugh at our older sons roughhousing together and making their brother smile as they tumbled over and around him on the floor. We cried with joy when we heard his voice for the first time when he was almost a year old—it was infrequent and only temporary through the use of a specific device, but we treasured that sound when he laughed.

Nineteen years after his death, I still cry a mixture of sorrowful and happy tears as I write these words and relive the memories. And yet I’d go through it all again to feel the kind of strength we received as God gently pointed out those things large and small that we could—and should—focus on in the moment, rather than the statistics that told us our son would never make it through early childhood.

Choosing joy and worshiping through uncertainty

When my husband was diagnosed with liver cancer a few years ago, we once again found ourselves cast into a situation where we had no control, no power, and potentially no joy. A successful surgery was followed not even two years later by a new, undefinable mass that prompted a recommendation for a liver transplant.

As we waded through the unending tests and plans, we seesawed between joy and tears. We’d allow ourselves the grief on occasion as we contemplated what we thought our later years would look like together compared to the reality we faced now. We also focused on the joy in small moments like sunsets together or family get-togethers with our kids.

Just as we thought things were coming together in the best—though not easiest—way possible, with our daughter going through her own set of tests to become a living donor, the previously undefinable mass was seen more clearly on a scan and the transplant hope was snatched away. The placement of the new tumor prohibited the very surgery we thought would take us back to normal.

Instead, exactly a year ago this week, my husband had a procedure done that effectively blocked off the blood supply to the inoperable tumor. A regimen of chemo pills soon followed, and during those dark weeks that saw one side effect piled upon another, I fought hard for my joy.

I’d go on walks when someone else could stay at the house, and as I walked, I’d listen to music that focused on the way God fights our battles for us, equipping us to deal with our pain. I’d worship through reading my favorite Bible stories about victory (2 Chronicles 20) and verses that reminded me of how much I had to be thankful for (Psalm 103).

I reminded myself of all the times God had sustained us, and looked back in amazement at those how-on-earth-did-we-cope times, knowing it was God taking on the hard work for us. Much like when the Israelites would repeat their stories from generation to generation, I chose to remember times past because God’s reliable track record boosted my joy for the future.

I worshiped by surrounding myself with friends and coworkers who made me laugh, because I knew these friends were a gift from God. He knows what we need, when we need it, and who will fill us instead of draining us. In these times, his joy truly was my strength.

None of these things was a magical cure that made me forget that certain circumstances weren’t—and still aren’t—ideal. But I’ve found that the more I choose joy, the more I choose to worship, the less I focus on myself and on the hardships that come with every life. And the more I choose that course, the easier it becomes as a habit. 

There will always be suffering. There is a one hundred percent chance you’ll experience it. But with each event, you’ll have the opportunity to choose to worship and rely on God’s strength, or to deal with things in your own strength. I know what my decision will be.

—Lynda Dietz