Fierce, Unyielding Love
by Donavon L Riley

God doesn’t spare us from the sharp edge of thorns; He plants them right into the center of our lives, where we feel every sting. St. Paul, praying three times, again and again, for the thorn to be taken—the man’s crying out, raw and human, yet God doesn’t sweep the suffering away. He lets the thorn press into Paul’s flesh, lets it dig in as if to say, “Here, in this ache, I am showing you something more.” It’s not a lesson; it’s a breaking open.

Through that wound, God strips pride down to its bare bones, clears out the hardness that sets us apart from Him. The thorn is not a curse, but a way in—a way for Christ’s strength to settle, to take root right there in the open wound. It’s an ancient wisdom that Paul begins to feel in his bones: our weakness, not our strength, invites God’s power to move like an underground river.

And so, we thank God for these barbed gifts, even if we feel more like wincing than celebrating. We don’t have to pretend to love them; we don’t have to play the stoic. But we see them now, these thorns, as coming from the hands of a Father who shapes us in ways we don’t understand. These wounds become holy ground, the unexpected place where His grace spills over the edges, unstoppable.

We might never ask for them, might wish them gone tomorrow, yet in their roughness, His mercy takes hold, fills the hollow spaces with a fierce, unyielding love. His grace doesn’t just get us through; it lives, breathes, and shines in the grit of our suffering, and we find ourselves clinging not to our strength but to His—and that changes everything.