“And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose.” —Romans 8:28 (ESV)

Pain has a way of changing us. It alters the tone of our prayers, shifts our perspective on life, and often pushes us to ask questions we never thought we’d have to ask. Questions like: Where is God in all of this? Why would He allow this? Can anything good come from this place?

I’ve asked those questions through tears in hospital waiting rooms, in the quiet of an empty house after a loss, and in the hidden moments no one else saw when my heart was breaking beneath a smile.

Maybe you have, too.

We don’t choose suffering—but it chooses us. It interrupts our plans, invades our expectations, and often leaves us standing in the wreckage of what we thought life would be. But here’s what I’ve come to believe through my own journey: our pain, as real and devastating as it is, does not disqualify us from purpose. In the hands of God, it becomes the very path that leads us to it.

There was a season in my life when I felt like the threads were unraveling faster than I could hold them together. A season marked by unanswered prayers, painful transitions, and heartache I didn’t see coming. It was a time of wrestling with God—raw, messy, and honest. I remember sitting alone, Bible in hand, unsure whether to keep reading or give up altogether. Romans 8:28 wasn’t just a verse I had memorized—it was one I wrestled with. Could all things really work together for good? Even this?

In that season, I began to realize that the “good” God promises is not always immediate comfort or circumstantial resolution. It’s something deeper. Something eternal. The “good” is found in being shaped into the likeness of Jesus, even when it hurts.

Pain doesn’t mean God has left you. It may mean He’s preparing you.

And when we look at the biblical story of Joseph—betrayed, abandoned, enslaved, and imprisoned—we begin to see that brokenness isn’t the end of the story. It’s often where legacy begins.

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The Legacy of Joseph: When Pain Meets Providence

If ever there was a biblical figure who knew the sting of betrayal and the weight of suffering, it was Joseph.

His story, recorded in Genesis 37–50, is one of the most compelling portraits of pain turned to purpose. But to fully grasp the magnitude of Joseph’s journey—from the favored son to a foreign ruler—we must understand not only what he endured, but when and where he lived.

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Favored Son in a Fractured Family

Joseph was the 11th of 12 sons born to Jacob, and the firstborn of Rachel, Jacob’s most beloved wife. In a patriarchal culture where the firstborn son typically held the position of inheritance and honor, Joseph’s favored status by his father—evidenced by the infamous “robe of many colors” (Genesis 37:3)—caused deep resentment among his brothers. His dreams, which seemed to place him in a position of authority over them, only fanned the flames of envy.

Culturally, honor and shame shaped the family dynamic. Joseph’s dreams would have been seen not merely as youthful arrogance, but as a direct threat to the social structure of the household. His brothers didn’t just dislike him—they felt dishonored by him. This cultural offense led to a conspiracy that forever altered Joseph’s life: his own flesh and blood sold him into slavery.

Imagine the trauma. Seventeen years old. Stripped of his robe. Bound by ropes. Carried off by Midianite traders to a foreign land. No goodbye. No justice. Just silence and betrayal from those closest to him echoing in his soul.

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Slavery and Injustice in Egypt

Joseph was taken to Egypt—a land vastly different in language, religion, and customs from his Hebrew home. He was sold to Potiphar, an officer of Pharaoh and captain of the guard. In Egyptian society, household slaves had virtually no rights. They were property. Yet Joseph distinguished himself through faithfulness, character, and the favor of God, and quickly rose to a position of oversight.

But just as things seemed to stabilize, he was falsely accused of sexual assault by Potiphar’s wife. No fair trial. No defense. Just a one-way trip to prison.

Ancient Egyptian prisons were not correctional facilities—they were holding places for the condemned or forgotten. Joseph wasn’t just imprisoned physically; he was buried beneath layers of injustice and abandonment. Scripture tells us he remained in that prison for years.

And yet, in Genesis 39, four powerful words resound again and again: “But the Lord was with Joseph.”

That phrase is no small statement. In a time when gods were thought to reside in certain lands or temples, the fact that the God of Israel was present with Joseph in a foreign land and a prison cell is nothing short of revolutionary.

God was not absent in Joseph’s pain—He was providentially active within it.

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From Prisoner to Prime Minister

Through divine orchestration, Joseph is brought out of prison to interpret Pharaoh’s dreams—a gift he’d refined while still incarcerated. Pharaoh elevates him to second-in-command over all of Egypt. What began in betrayal ends in blessing—not just for Joseph, but for an entire nation and the surrounding regions during a severe famine.

But perhaps the most moving moment in Joseph’s story comes years later, when his brothers stand before him—unaware of his identity—begging for grain. He has the power to repay their evil. Instead, he reveals his identity through tears and embraces them.

“You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive, as they are today.” —Genesis 50:20 (ESV)

This is not a shallow statement. It is the culmination of years of pain, testing, and refinement. It is a declaration forged in the fire of betrayal, suffering, and deep trust in God’s sovereignty.

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When We Don’t See the Whole Story

Joseph didn’t get to read his own story while living it. He couldn’t see the palace from the pit. He didn’t know that the prison was preparation. But he trusted the Author.

Too often, we want to skip to the redemption before we’ve walked through the refining. But the truth is—some of the most powerful legacies are born not in the ease of success but in the endurance of suffering.

Joseph’s story reminds us that:

• God’s presence is not limited by our location. Whether in a palace or a prison, God was with Joseph—and He is with us.
• Our pain may be a platform. What the enemy meant for harm, God is able to redeem for good.
• Legacy is forged in the long road of faithfulness. Joseph waited over 13 years between betrayal and breakthrough.

Your story may not look like Joseph’s, but your pain is just as real. And so is God’s presence.

When you feel forgotten, falsely accused, or unfairly treated—remember Joseph. His legacy wasn’t born in spite of his brokenness. It was born through it.

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Romans 8:28 — More Than a Hallmark Verse

We love to quote Romans 8:28—especially when we don’t know what else to say in the face of suffering. But let’s be honest: this verse often lands more like a bumper sticker than a soothing balm when we’re in the thick of heartbreak.

“And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose.” —Romans 8:28 (ESV)

This isn’t a shallow platitude. It’s not Paul offering us poetic optimism. It’s a declaration forged in the furnace of real suffering—Paul’s and ours.

To understand the power of Romans 8:28, we must see it in context.

Paul wrote this letter to a young, diverse church in Rome—a community made up of Jewish and Gentile believers navigating social tension, theological differences, and increasing persecution under the Roman Empire. Rome was the epicenter of cultural power, but Christians were marginalized, misunderstood, and often targeted.

By the time Paul writes Romans 8, he’s not speaking from the comfort of theological theory. He’s a man acquainted with frequent hardship. Beaten, shipwrecked, imprisoned, stoned, rejected—Paul knows suffering. And he knows that his readers do, too.

Romans 8 is Paul’s crescendo on the life of the Spirit—it’s a vision of what it means to live as God’s children in a broken world. And he doesn’t sugarcoat it. In the verses immediately before Romans 8:28, Paul speaks of groaning—creation groans, we groan, and even the Spirit groans with us in our weakness (check out Romans 8:22–27). This groaning isn’t weakness—it’s the sound of labor. Something is being birthed in the tension.

So when Paul says that “all things work together for good,” he’s not denying the pain. He’s declaring God’s providence in the middle of it.

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What Is the “Good” God Is Working?

The word “good” in our modern minds often means what feels comfortable, what brings happiness, or what we would choose for ourselves. But Paul’s vision of “good” is far deeper. Just look at the very next verse:

“For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son…” — Romans 8:29

The good that God is working in our lives is not just circumstantial blessing—it is spiritual transformation.

God’s ultimate purpose is not to make us comfortable, but to make us more like Christ.

And that means He will often use what breaks us to rebuild us in His likeness. He will take the splinters of our shattered plans and craft something that tells His story—not just ours.

Joseph didn’t know Romans 8:28, but he lived it.

His “all things” included betrayal, slavery, false accusation, and years in a prison cell. Nothing about that looked or felt good. But with hindsight—and divine perspective—we see that every piece of pain was woven into God’s larger redemptive plan.

Joseph’s life shows us that:

• God doesn’t waste wounds. They are often the very tools He uses to carve out His purposes.
• Goodness may not feel like gain in the moment. It might feel like loss, like pruning, like discipline—but it’s purposeful.
• The “good” may be for others as much as for us. Joseph’s suffering became the means of salvation for nations.

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A Legacy Formed in the Furnace

Romans 8:28 invites us to trust. It dares us to believe that behind the veil of pain, there is purpose. That our brokenness is not the end of the story—it may be the birthplace of legacy.

You might not see the “good” yet. You may feel more like Joseph in the pit than Joseph in the palace. But God sees the whole arc of the story. And He is still working.

In my own seasons of grief and struggle, I’ve clung to this truth not because it made the pain disappear—but because it gave it meaning. The tears that seemed wasted were collected by a faithful God. The losses that felt pointless were being repurposed for something I couldn’t yet see.

Romans 8:28 doesn’t promise an easy road. It promises a purposeful one.

So hold on. God is not finished. And the pain that threatens to break you may be the very soil in which your legacy will grow.

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When Theology Meets Tears: Walking with C.S. Lewis Through Pain

There’s something profoundly human about hearing another person wrestle honestly with suffering—especially someone like C.S. Lewis, who is often revered for his brilliant theology and intellectual clarity. But in his writings on pain, we encounter a different Lewis. Not the confident apologist, but the grieving husband. Not the professor at Oxford, but the broken man on his knees.

Lewis didn’t just write about pain as a distant observer—he lived it.

In The Problem of Pain, written before he had experienced deep personal loss, Lewis tackles the philosophical and theological dimensions of suffering. He offers what many consider one of the most articulate defenses of God’s goodness in the face of human anguish. He famously wrote:

“God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”

Here, Lewis reminds us that pain is often a divine wake-up call—not because God delights in hurting us, but because He loves us enough not to leave us unchanged. Pain has a way of stripping us of pretense, comfort, and illusion. It exposes what we truly believe.

But it’s in A Grief Observed, written after the death of his beloved wife, Joy, that we meet a Lewis who is no longer theorizing. He’s grieving. He’s searching. And he’s brutally honest.

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”

Lewis doesn’t offer tidy answers. Instead, he invites us into his wrestle—one marked by doubt, frustration, longing, and, eventually, a deeper trust. He admits to questioning God’s silence in the face of his sorrow. He confesses the aching loneliness of absence. But even in his rawness, a quiet thread of hope emerges.

Reading A Grief Observed feels like reading Joseph’s diary in the prison cell—if he had written one. It’s the voice of someone whose theology is being refined in the fire of affliction.

And yet, Lewis doesn’t abandon faith. Rather, he allows his pain to reshape it.

“You never know how much you really believe anything until its truth or falsehood becomes a matter of life and death to you.” —C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

Pain That Shapes, But Doesn’t Shatter

Lewis’s reflections are an invitation to sit honestly with our sorrow and to bring it into conversation with God. Not to deny the pain, but to discover that it doesn’t have to destroy us. It can shape us.

This is where Lewis, Paul, and Joseph intersect:

• Joseph shows us pain endured with purpose.
• Paul gives us theological clarity about God’s redemptive work in all things.
• Lewis gives us language for the emotional and spiritual confusion of walking through suffering with faith still flickering.

All three tell us that pain doesn’t mean God is absent. In fact, it may mean He’s closer than we know. Pain is not the end of faith—it may be the birthplace of something more honest, more surrendered, more enduring.

Lewis eventually comes to this realization: that even when God seems silent, He is not absent. That even when the pain is great, grace is greater. That love—not loss—has the final word.

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Finding Our Own Voice in the Midst of Suffering

Lewis’s words gave me language when I couldn’t find my own. In the wake of losing my father in my early twenties, I found myself carrying a grief I didn’t know how to name—one that wasn’t just emotional, but spiritual. I had prayed for healing, pleaded for more time, clung to hope. But when those prayers didn’t result in the outcome I longed for, I was left with silence and sorrow.

It was in that quiet, aching season that A Grief Observed and The Problem of Pain became more than just books to me—they became companions. Lewis’s raw honesty helped me remember I wasn’t alone in the wrestle. His questions gave voice to mine. His doubt didn’t push God away—it somehow pulled God closer. His grief didn’t diminish his faith—it deepened it.

Lewis gave me permission to grieve deeply and still believe boldly. Like him, I discovered that God doesn’t rebuke our pain—He redeems it.

If you’re carrying questions in the dark, know this: God is not offended by your honesty. He welcomes it.

The Psalms are filled with cries of lament and questions like, “Why, Lord?” and “How long, O Lord?” Not once does God shame His people for asking. Instead, He draws near to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18). He listens. He holds. He heals.

And like Lewis, Joseph, and Paul, we begin to discover this powerful truth: the goodness of God isn’t found in the absence of pain—but in His nearness through it.

The presence of suffering does not mean the absence of God. In fact, our deepest valleys often become the places where we come to know His love in ways we never could on the mountaintops.

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Three Keys to Navigating Loss with Hope

Pain can leave us paralyzed—or it can propel us into a deeper walk with God. As we’ve seen in the life of Joseph, the writings of Paul, and the honest reflections of C.S. Lewis, suffering is not a detour from our spiritual journey—it’s often the very soil where faith takes root and legacy begins.

Here are three practical, biblically grounded keys that can help you navigate loss in a spiritually healthy and redemptive way:

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1. Be Honest with God—He Can Handle It

“Pour out your heart before him; God is a refuge for us.” —Psalm 62:8 (ESV)

God does not require you to edit your emotions before coming to Him. In fact, He invites unfiltered honesty. Grief often brings a whirlwind of feelings—anger, sorrow, confusion, even numbness. The Psalms show us that lament is not a lack of faith—it’s a form of faith. It says, “God, I’m still talking to You, even when I don’t understand.”

When Joseph was falsely accused and thrown in prison, there is no record of him lashing out—but there’s also no indication that he was emotionally unmoved. Like many of us, he probably carried unspoken sorrow and questions. Scripture says simply, “But the Lord was with Joseph” (Genesis 39:21). God remained near in the quiet.

Take your grief to Him—messy, raw, and real. Let Him meet you there.

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2. Trust That God Is Working Even When You Don’t See It

“We walk by faith, not by sight.” —2 Corinthians 5:7 (ESV)

Romans 8:28 does not promise immediate clarity, but it does promise ultimate redemption. In seasons of loss, it’s tempting to believe God has forgotten us. But just because you can’t see the harvest doesn’t mean the seed isn’t growing.

Joseph didn’t understand how God was using each painful chapter of his life until years later. The betrayal, the silence, the delay—they all had purpose. And God is doing the same in you.

Faith doesn’t mean pretending the pain isn’t real. It means believing the story isn’t over.

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3. Let God Use Your Story to Comfort Others

“[God] comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction…” —2 Corinthians 1:4 (ESV)

Your pain has a purpose beyond your own healing. Once God begins to mend your heart, He will often use your story to help mend someone else’s. That’s what legacy looks like—it’s when your faith becomes a light for others walking a dark road.

Joseph’s suffering positioned him to save lives. C.S. Lewis’s heartbreak gave us words that comfort generations. And your story—your loss, your healing, your restoration—can become a testimony of God’s goodness in the midst of sorrow.

Your brokenness is not a disqualification from ministry or meaning—it’s the very place where legacy begins.

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Redeemed, Not Wasted

No pain is wasted in the hands of God.

Whether you’re in the pit like Joseph, in the middle of the “groaning” like Paul described in Romans 8, or simply searching for words like Lewis—you’re not alone. Your grief matters. Your healing matters. And God is still writing your story.

Let Him turn your brokenness into a legacy that glorifies Him and encourages others.