It could be argued that there is no greater observer of the human condition, than the late author C.S. Lewis.  And that there is no more profound examination of suffering than his book, “The Problem of Pain”.  He writes, essentially, that it is the existence of suffering which actually defines life.  That there can be no life worth living without risk.  And for there to be risk, there must be the possibility of loss.  And for there to be loss, there must be an accompanying pain. 

In his own words:

Try to exclude the possibility of suffering which the order of nature and the existence of free-wills involve, and you find that you have excluded life itself.

As much as I love Lewis, I find myself even more drawn to the words of author Glennon Doyle Melton, as she sums up the same idea in a manner more blunt, more cutting; more face-punch than intellectual once-over.  Like a tattoo I’d get if I had more stones and less age, she says it like this:

If no pain, then no love. If no darkness, no light. If no risk, then no reward. It's all or nothing. In this damn world, it's all or nothing.

It makes sense, this idea that things can’t be defined without regarding them relative to something else.  Carson needed McMahon’s cardboard personality, his canned Yes!, and his on-cue laughs to highlight the slicing precision of his comedy.   New-car smell isn’t nearly as satisfying, until you’ve soaked for ten years in the stale air of stagnant milk, wayward fries, and the lingering breath from a thousand forgotten head colds.  

But the reality that joy follows pain - as much as we might know it to be true - doesn’t make the long stretches of drudgery any easier, just because they might lead eventually to a couple of days at the beach.  In fact, most days are more joint-aching tedium than kazoos and plastic hats.  Sadness seems to linger, while smiles and laughter are here and then gone.

And after a number of years, after we’ve been jaded by the meaningless repetition of it all, this begins to seem like a bad equation.  Where is the payoff?  

We begin the life-equivalent of clock-watching:  Suffering through eight or ten hours every day, settling for the hope that maybe we can find a few minutes of happiness stolen from the last dying light of evening.  But even those fleeting moments slip through the fingers, because we spend them blankly, trying to numb the pain of the hours before, or dulling the forecast of more for tomorrow. 

All of recorded literature points to the idea that suffering is timeless.  Because of this, it seems reasonable to assume that the sum total of pain on earth is not now greater or less than it ever was, and also that there is no more or less pain today, than will exist in the future, despite advances in technology and medicine that are aspiring to make it otherwise.  The kind of suffering may change, but the amount stays the same.

A glance at the two things we actually know for sure about life indicates this to be true:  

We all struggle.  And we all die.

The philosophy of Nihilism grew from these two inescapable truths.  Friedrich Nietzsche is arguably the most famous of subscribers to this doctrine.  Most have heard at least one of his thoughts:  “Whatever doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger”.  Perhaps that much is true.

But Nihilism always was a cowardly way of looking at things.  

It’s a copout.  A resignation used by the weak, because it’s easier than acknowledging the truth as it really is.  If we go back to the two things we all know to be true - that we will struggle, and we will die - Nihilism simply makes those observations, and then tries to figure out a way to live with them.  

That seems to leave some obvious gaps in reasoning.  It’s like standing on the interstate, observing the oncoming traffic, and then figuring out a way to make the pavement more comfortable in the meantime.

But the more courageous aren’t afraid to ask the question which logically follows:  

If we’re going to die anyway, what makes the struggle worth it?

It’s in our nature to avoid pain.  That same instinct keeps us alive sometimes.  And yet ironically, to even be alive means to suffer.  Some of it is obvious, raw, universal - in the open, and easily seen.  And some, no less tortuous, remains invisible to all but those who experience it, hidden in the lonely caverns of our minds.

But it finds us all.  

Here’s the thing, as Lewis and Melton have said:  Struggle provides the background for joy.  Of course it does.  None of us actually needs a famous author to tell us this, because we roll those dice all the time.  

Was it worth falling in love, knowing there was a chance one of us might someday know life without the other?  Yes, of course it was.  Ten thousand times.  And by considering that we only really have today, we are able to live today much more deeply.  None of us have an embarrassment of minutes on the clock.  That knowledge is daunting at times, but it gives meaning to the moments where we previously saw none.  

But even so, we’ve all made the choice, whether we knew it or not, to take the easy road at some point.  We didn’t get married, or have children, or adopt.  Or we failed to make deep friendships, or ask forgiveness of those we’ve hurt, or make greater attempts to love those we haven’t loved enough, because of the possibility that person could hurt us - or hurt us again - eventually.  

But did we avoid the pain?  Of course not.  The pain was still there.  Waiting.  Suffering, in the absence of love, is like matter.  It cannot be created or destroyed.  It can only change form.  It visited us anyway, perhaps much later, in the form of loneliness or regret.

What of those times we seemingly risked it all, and lost?  Those times when the relationship didn’t last?  When through death or divorce or betrayal, the love we ventured was scattered among the weeds, swung against the rocks, and our efforts - and the love that went with them - vanished into the ether.

Was it still worth it?  Yes, of course it was.  Ten thousand times.  Because it wasn’t actually lost at all.  Only redirected.  The timing was changed, but the love still exists. Only now it is even more powerful.

You now have an even greater capacity to love, and it came from the ashes of pain.  You know, as others have yet to learn, how to love more fully.  And how to counsel others in their pain, with that rarest of gifts, given to you in the fires of suffering.

But to the bigger question, is the unrelenting struggle worth it, when life is short, and it all ends the same way?  I think it’s easier to look at that same question from a slightly different angle, because asking if struggle is worth the pain, presupposes a falsehood - that we have the choice to avoid struggle.  A better way to ask is this:  Can we make struggle worth it?

Yes.  Of course we can.  

But only the most courageous ever do.

Love is a tremendously courageous act, because it wagers everything, and expects nothing in return.  And the stakes cruelly rise against us as we go, because love requires us to suffer on its behalf.  

We aren’t always granted a clear view of its results.  Loving the child who does not understand our efforts, or the husband who does not reciprocate them, or the brother who takes, once again, more than we offered, illustrates that the sacrifice doesn’t end quickly.  Love is long-suffering.

Love is required of us not only on the mountain, but on the hot, muddy slogs.  Especially then.  It is asked of us not just when we’re feeling whole, but when we’re tired and sick and frail.  Especially then.  And the only guarantee is that you will feel pain, and you will fail - at least occasionally, and often drastically - along the way.

By any worldly definition, it’s the textbook example of a bad bet.

Love, more than anything else in life, asks for blind faith.  It demands sacrifice without considering gain.  Love requires of us that, when one takes the dollar we gave them, and tears it up in spite, that we give them ten thousand to replace it.

It requires of us that, lest another feel we love our possessions more than we love them, we burn our houses to the ground, push our cars off the bridge, throw our diamonds in the river.  

But to merely take the chance - to blindly step from the ledge, immediately reveals a singular truth.  One that simply can’t be seen while safely on the trail:  

There is nothing else that profoundly stands on the neck of suffering but love.  The love we get from others eases our own suffering, while the love we give back eases theirs.  But without the risk - the risk of loving relentlessly - we never know it.  Entire lifetimes have been lived without it.

And unlike money, looks, prestige, and time, love doesn’t run out.

It renews every minute - becoming stronger as it goes.  It doesn’t waste even a glance up at the scoreboard.   It looks only ahead, through blood and sweat, to where the purpose lies.

It sees, when we cannot, that the very lives of everyone around us depend on it.  The wayward daughter, the ailing father, the wheelchairs and the depression and the divorce.  They all seethe with suffering.   The very hope of many is threatened by the pain through which they cannot see.  Pain which seems to have no end, and no meaning. The possibility of joy in the lives of those amidst the conflict hangs from a thread. Its only hope is in the appearance of love.

All suffering is made weaker by the people who deal in love.  Real love.  The kind that does not ask questions, and doesn’t mind getting its new shirt dirty.  It doesn’t worry about getting grease on the car seats or scratches on the wall.  It has a few missing teeth, doesn’t always use correct grammar, and rattles the chandelier as it kicks in the door. It stumbles, headlong and reckless into the room, wraps its arms around you, and doesn’t give a damn what the startled onlookers think. It’s just as comfortable around the stench of suffering as it is in the crisp presence of unspeakable joy.

It seems like it shouldn’t be that hard.  We’re all in this together, and none of us gets out alive.  And yet, we find it easier to sit by.

We insulate ourselves.  We already gave some money to charity.  And that’s what taxes are for, anyway.  A safety net we’ve already paid for, for whenever someone gets in trouble.  We’ve already done our part. 

Money, to those without, cannot be minimized. But money without love is only paper.  It satisfies the mind and keeps the wolves at bay for a time, while leaving the soul starved and dying.

But it is the truest of all true things, that the only rest for the soul - the only songs sung in the hearts of the free, were placed there by another, who knew the truth:  

That love is not like matter.  It is not like pain.  It is not a zero-sum game.  Love cannot be destroyed, but can absolutely be created.   We must be careless with its use.  Throwing it around with mindless abandon, like it cost us nothing.  We must not treat it like we’re bankers and accountants, looking after it like a finite currency.  It cannot run out.  It never thins.  It can and must be endlessly brought to bear.  It springs from a Source that does not ever run dry.

Where suffering lurks, that is where love is revealed.  In the dry and rocky soil, it grows to terrible strength.  It’s light - stronger than a thousand suns - burns the failures and the regrets and the mistakes and the pain - and everything-that-does-not-matter - to weightless chaff, and the slightest of breezes casually carries it away.  

And only then do we see that suffering on this earth grovels shamefully at the feet of love.

And we will no longer ask whether it was worth it.  

Of course it was.