Four Little Words: I’ve Been There Before

I’ve been there before.

Four little words.

But sometimes four little words are all someone needs to hear.

Yesterday, I was listening to a message from Charles Stanley about trials. He used a phrase that caught my attention—the idea that we can actually profit from our trials.

Profit from them.

That sounds almost contrary to the way we normally think.

When trials come, why do we so easily become downtrodden, despondent, angry, frustrated, or overwhelmed? Why do we feel the need to continually talk about what is happening, explain it, analyze it, defend ourselves, or try to figure out what comes next?

Over the years, I have learned something different.

Say less.

Keep my palms open.

And stay right where my feet are.

I don’t have to understand tomorrow. I don’t even have to understand today.

I can simply trust the Father.

I picture myself walking through these seasons with both hands open, palms facing upward.

In one hand, I am asking the Father to place whatever He wants to give me.

Teach me.

Change me.

Make me more like You.

Deepen my faith.

Help me see what You see.

Give me the mind of Christ.

Let others look at my life during this trial and see something that cannot be explained by human strength.

Because it isn’t me.

It is Christ living in and through me.

But my other hand is open too.

And in that hand are the things I so easily want to grab and hold tightly.

Anger.

Frustration.

Unforgiveness.

Fear.

The need to know what is going to happen.

The need to be understood.

The need to sit down with someone and tell the whole story one more time because somehow I think that will make me feel better.

With an open hand, though, the Father can take those things away.

I don’t have to carry them.

That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have a trusted friend with whom we can be transparent. Scripture tells us to bear one another’s burdens. There is tremendous beauty in having someone who will listen, pray and stand beside us.

But there is a difference between sharing a burden and continually picking it back up.

Maybe that is part of how we profit from a trial.

We discover that God really is enough.

We exercise this incredible gift of faith.

We believe when we cannot see.

We give thanks before we understand.

And somehow, right in the middle of the test, we begin to experience something we never expected:

Peace.

And then, sometime later, God brings someone across our path who is standing where we once stood.

And suddenly we understand another reason He allowed us to walk through it.

“I’ve been there before.”

Paul writes:

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort; who comforts us in all our affliction, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, through the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”

2 Corinthians 1:3–4

That verse has become so real to me through Hattie’s House.

When we meet families walking through some of the most difficult days imaginable, we don’t have to have all the answers.

We aren’t there to fix everything.

Sometimes we simply get to say:

I see you.

I’m for you.

I’m standing with you.

I love you.

And so does God.

We have been there before.

Our circumstances may not have been exactly the same. Our stories may be completely different. But we know what it is like to hurt. We know what it is like to wonder what tomorrow will bring. We know what it is like to pray when there seem to be no answers.

And most importantly, we know the One who met us there.

The comfort we offer isn’t ultimately ours.

It is His.

The hope isn’t ours.

It is His.

The promises aren’t ours.

They are His.

And the faith isn’t something we manufacture. It is exercised as we believe the One who has promised to never leave us or forsake us.

Maybe some of the things we have asked God to remove from our lives are the very things He will someday use to allow us to sit beside someone else and whisper:

“I’ve been there before.”

Maybe the trial isn’t simply something to get through.

Maybe the Father is preparing us.

Preparing us to love.

Preparing us to listen.

Preparing us to encourage.

Preparing us to comfort.

Preparing us so that His life, His love and His promises can someday pour through us into someone else.

What if we began looking at trials differently?

Not, “God, how quickly can You get me out of this?”

But:

“Father, my hands are open.

Take from me whatever You don’t want me to carry.

Place in me whatever You want me to receive.

Make me more like Jesus.

And when the time comes, use what You have taught me to help someone else.”

There is tremendous purpose in a life surrendered like that.

Because somewhere along the road, we will meet a friend, a daughter, a son, a husband, a wife, a neighbor, or perhaps even a complete stranger who is walking through something that feels impossible.

And we may not need a sermon.

We may not need an explanation.

We may only need four little words.

I’ve been there before.