A friend of mine asked me the other day how I deal with chronic pain. I’ve spent a few days trying to figure out the right words to put into it. So I decided to write about ringing the bells at Mass. I’m sure that’s a very odd way to start a blog about pain, but I hope it makes sense by the end of it. So bear with me as I try to explain to you how I deal with my pain.
I want to place a disclaimer here. One of the reasons I had so much trouble sitting down the write about this is that I’m not particularly eager to talk about it. I don’t want to give any impression of virtue signaling or some “holier than thou, look at me” vibe. I am a sinner, greatly in need of God’s grace, and the only person I strive to be better than is me. The only purpose I have in sharing these experiences is to help anyone struggling with constant pain by letting them know how I deal with it personally.
And so, I ring the bells.
Bells were often thought of as a pure sound, a joyful sound. The church has long used them at important points in the Mass to alert people that something was happening. “Sit up and pay attention.” Some people prefer not to ring the bells for that reason, because now with the Mass in the vernacular, people know what’s going on. I ring the bells because they remind me of Heaven, of what we are doing, and that we are surrounded by a great host of angels and saints as Heaven kisses earth in the Mass.
And so, I ring the bells.
Now, I can’t talk about my chronic pain without talking about an experience I had immediately after my back surgery. I was still in bed, unable to stand on my own, when they placed me in a wheelchair and rolled me to the x-ray room. When we got there, they indicated a bar and said to see my back and the bolts and rods; I’d have to “hang from it.” I remember them lifting me from the chair and placing my hands on the bar. Then the world ceased the exist. My eyes only saw white, and all I could think is I have to hang on. This bar, this singular thing, was all I could think of. I dunno if I blacked out, or they pried me loose, but somehow I ended up back in the bed and began hitting my “pain medicine” button rapidly.
And so, I ring the bells.
I couldn’t make sense of this really until I watched the Passion of Christ again. In Mel Gibson’s adaptation of this biblical narrative, there is a moment after Jesus falls that he gets back up and clings to the cross. There is almost a smile on his face. He holds it like a loved one, a cherished one, and as if it were all that mattered in the world. I knew that feeling. I realized that the way I felt about that bar, that holding on to it was all that mattered, all that existed, was the way Jesus felt about me. The reason He got up again and carried the cross to Calvary.
And so, I ring the bells.
As to chronic pain, there isn’t a moment that I am not hurting. Sometimes I joke that you get used to it, and in a way, you do. I sometimes am numb to it and don’t realize I’m hurting until I move the wrong way or jar myself by stepping too heavily. It hurts to stand; it hurts to kneel; it hurts every single time I bend over. My back sometimes feels like I am in a vice, and other times my nerves misfire, and my legs feel like I am walking in fire. There have been times that I’ve been so overwhelmed by the depression and despair that comes with hurting that I wanted to give up. Even days that I hoped God would take me in my sleep.
And so, I ring the bells.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not asking for pity, and I don’t want people to worry about my pain. I’ve come to accept that each moment of pain is a moment in which I can unite with Christ on the cross, where I can return to where that bar is that I need to hang on to, where all that matters is each of you: my wife, my children, my friends, and family. Each twinge or muscle ache, each misfired nerve is a moment to join the human condition. To journey with someone who hurts, who mourns, who despairs, and in some way be there with them. Even if they will never know it, my pain has become, in a way, a prayer—an offering.
And so, I ring the bells.
I may never have a day that does not hurt, and I’m ok with that. I get cranky, I’m hard to live with, and my patience can be non-existent. When my fibromyalgia flares up, my wife can’t even touch me. The slightest touch in bed can wake me up from a deep sleep as if someone has punched me. Some days the Jesus who wants to live in me is not in a good mood. Lately, I’ve taken to walking in the evenings while I pray a rosary and a divine mercy chaplet. Every step hurts. So I don’t think of the walk. I put one foot in front of the other until I am at my destination.
And so, I ring the bells.
The bells make us aware that Jesus is present, that the bread and wine are becoming the body and blood, soul and divinity of our Lord, Jesus Christ. Sure, there are days it hurts to pick them up—even days when it hurts to twist them back and forth in my hands. I ring them because it gives me focus. After all, even my pain reminds me of the Jesus I have so fallen in love with. Of the Godman who clung to the cross, holding it as if He were holding me, for my sins. The solemn ringing tone calls out to the world that there is a reason to continue fighting the despair and sorrow. That God knows our struggle, and He joins us in it, holding us even when we can’t see or feel it.
Even though it hurts, even though some claim it old fashioned and unnecessary, even when my body yells at me to stop… I ring the bells. I ring the bells for Him.