The Almanac of Pain

 The Almanac of Pain

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." (Psalm 147:3)

Part One: The Season of Silence

I remember the morning clearly. It was a Tuesday in July, the kind of Highveld winter morning where the sun rises like a reluctant promise golden but cold, beautiful but deceptive. I had just received word that a dear friend, a man I had prayed with, laughed with, and broken bread with, had been shot during a cash-in-transit robbery in Silverton. He survived, but barely. The bullet that grazed his skull left him with a wound that would take months to heal—and a heart that would take longer.

I sat in my study in Akasia, the familiar hum of Pretoria traffic drifting through the window, and I felt something I had felt many times before: the weight of a world that groans. The Scripture declares unequivocally that "the whole human creation is groaning". And on that Tuesday morning, I groaned with it.

But here is what I have learned, what I am still learning, what I am compelled to share with you today: Emotional pain has seasons, like the weather. And the wise soul keeps a holy almanac.

Part Two: Defining Our Terms

Let us define our terms clearly. An almanac is not merely a calendar. It is a record—a chronicle of patterns, of seasons, of the predictable rhythms that govern the natural world. The farmer does not curse the sky when the dry season comes; he prepares the kraal. He knows that drought is not a surprise but a season. He knows that the rains will return, not because he deserves them, but because the God who orders the stars also orders the showers.

A holy almanac, then, is the spiritual record you keep of your seasons of sorrow. It is the journal of your soul's weather patterns. It answers the question: What was God doing in that storm?

Consider the argument:

Premise One: God is sovereign over all seasons, including seasons of pain.

Premise Two: God's sovereignty is not arbitrary but purposeful He works all things for the good of those who love Him (Romans 8:28).

Premise Three: Therefore, every season of pain has a divine purpose that can be discerned, understood, and ultimately trusted.

A common objection arises here: "But Harold, my pain feels meaningless. My suffering seems random. How can I believe there is purpose when all I feel is chaos?"

This objection fails because it confuses feeling with fact. The feeling of meaninglessness is real I do not dismiss it. I have felt it. But feeling is not the final authority. Scripture is. The psalmist did not say, "He heals those who feel broken." He said, "He heals the brokenhearted". The healing is not contingent on your perception of the pain; it is contingent on the character of the Healer.

Part Three: The Anatomy of a Season

Picture a world where every season is the same. No winter, no summer, no autumn, no spring. Just endless, monotonous sameness. Would that world produce growth? Would the soil yield fruit? Would the trees deepen their roots?

No. It is the variation of seasons that produces strength. The winter forces the tree to send its roots deeper. The drought forces the seed to wait. The storm forces the building to stand firm.

What you learn in one season becomes the foundation for the next.

I think of the parable of the sower. The seed that fell on rocky ground sprang up quickly but when the sun scorched it, it withered because it had no root. The problem was not the sun; the problem was the shallow root. The sun revealed what was already there.

Is it not true that we all feel the heat of life? The rising cost of living that squeezes the budget until it bleeds. The violence that stalks our streets the murder, the rape, the carjacking. The anti-immigrant protests that divide communities and leave foreign-owned shops shuttered in Vanderbijlpark. The fuel prices that finally drop, offering modest relief, only for something else to rise in their place.

This is the South African reality. This is the soil in which we are called to grow. And the question is not, Will the heat come? It is, How deep are your roots?

Part Four: The Almanac in Practice

Let me tell you how I keep my almanac.

I write. I write when I am angry. I write when I am confused. I write when I am weeping. I write not to complain though the complaints come but to record. I note the spiritual climate when sorrow visits. Was it a season of stretching? A time of pruning? A moment of refining fire?

Over time, patterns emerge. I see that every season of loss was followed by a season of deepening. Every season of confusion was followed by a season of clarity. Every season of loneliness was followed by a season of intimacy with God.

The wise herder knows the dry season will come; he does not curse the sky, he prepares the kraal. He stores water. He strengthens the fences. He watches the horizon. And when the clouds finally gather, he does not panic—he says, "This is my season. Lord, teach me in this storm."

This removes the panic of surprise. When you know that pain is not random but seasonal, you can wait with a farmer's faith for the harvest of character God promises.

Part Five: The Healer Who Binds

But let us not make a mistake. This is not a call to stoicism. This is not the philosophy of the strong man who grits his teeth and bears it. This is the theology of the broken man who falls into the arms of a healing God.

The Scripture declares: "He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds". Notice the verbs. Heal. Bind. These are active, intimate, personal actions. This is not a distant God who observes from afar. This is a God who moves toward the crushed. This is a God who applies healing. This is a God who stays close until restoration is complete.

Imagine, if you will, a physician who not only prescribes medicine but sits beside your bed, holds your hand, and whispers, "I am with you." That is the God of Psalm 147. That is the God who sent His Son not to philosophize about suffering, but to enter it. To feel it. To bleed it. To die it.

Jesus Christ, the Son of God, was brokenhearted on the cross. He was wounded. He was crushed. And in that moment, He did not cry out for escape—He cried out for the Father. His suffering was not meaningless; it was redemptive. And because He suffered, our suffering is not meaningless either.

Part Six: The Sound of the Alarm

Now, I must sound the alarm against a dangerous error that has crept into the church. It is the error of toxic positivity the belief that if you have enough faith, you will never suffer. The belief that pain is a sign of God's displeasure. The belief that sorrow is something to be ashamed of.

This is not the gospel. This is a counterfeit. This is the philosophy of the world dressed in religious language.

The gospel does not promise the absence of pain; it promises the presence of God in the pain. The gospel does not say, "You will never be broken"; it says, "When you are broken, I will heal you." The gospel does not say, "You will never weep"; it says, "Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy."

True liberation is found only in submitting to the reality of a fallen world while trusting in the sovereignty of a loving God. We must reject the lie that suffering is always the result of personal sin. We must reject the lie that lament is a lack of faith. We must reject the lie that we must always smile when our hearts are breaking.

The African church has a unique gift to offer the world here. We know what it means to suffer. We know what it means to hope in the midst of suffering. We have learned to live "between wounds and hope". We have learned that "suffering and smiling" can coexist. We have learned that the resurrection is not a distant theological concept but a present reality—the promise that God can transform our lives, even in Africa.

Part Seven: The Harvest of Character

I return to my study in Akasia. I look out the window at the Jacaranda trees that line our streets. In spring, they will bloom with purple glory. But now, in winter, they are bare. They look dead. They look hopeless.

But they are not dead. They are waiting.

The roots are deepening. The sap is storing. The tree is preparing for the explosion of life that will come when the season turns.

This is what God is doing in your pain. He is deepening your roots. He is storing His life in you. He is preparing you for a harvest of character that you cannot yet see.

You will never possess what you are unwilling to pursue. And if you are unwilling to pursue God in your pain, you will never possess the depth of relationship He offers through your pain.

The argument is simple: God loves you because of who you are, but He blesses you because of what you do. What must you do? You must keep the almanac. You must record the seasons. You must trust the pattern. You must wait with farmer's faith.

Part Eight: The Call to Action

So here is my challenge to you, child of God, citizen of this beautiful and broken land:

Start your almanac today.

When the pain comes and it will come do not run from it. Do not numb it. Do not pretend it isn't there. Record it. Ask: What is God doing in this season? What is He teaching me? What is He pruning? What is He preparing?

And when the storm rages when the fuel prices rise, when the violence strikes, when the community divides, when the budget breaks, when the heart shatters say this:

"This is my season for the refining fire. Lord, teach me in this storm."

Because the One who heals the brokenhearted is the same yesterday, today, and forever. The One who binds up their wounds is the One who holds the stars in their courses. The One who sent His Son to die is the One who will bring you to glory.

He is not surprised by your pain. He is not distant from your tears. He is not indifferent to your wounds.

He is healing you. He is binding you. He is restoring you.

And one day, when the seasons have run their course, you will look back at your almanac—at the record of your sorrows and you will see what you cannot see now:

Every storm was a step toward the Son.

Prayer

Father, help me keep an almanac of my seasons. Teach me to wait with farmer's faith through every storm. When the winter comes, deepen my roots. When the drought comes, teach me to drink from You. When the fire comes, refine me. And when the harvest comes, let me see that every tear was a seed, every wound was a lesson, and every season was a step toward Your heart. In the name of Jesus Christ, who was broken for me, who heals me, and who will one day wipe every tear from my eyes. Amen.

"He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds." (Psalm 147:3, KJV)

Harold Mawela

Akasia, Pretoria

July 2026