“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” —2 Corinthians 12:9
God does not always remove the thorn, but through it, He opens us to a grace that runs deeper than our strength. —D.
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God does not spare us from the sharp edge of thorns. He places them right in the center of our lives, where they press, sting, and stay. St. Paul, crying out three times for his thorn to be taken away is no small plea. It’s raw, honest, human. And God doesn’t remove it. He lets it remain, not as punishment, but as invitation. The thorn isn’t just pain, it’s a way in. A crack through which God enters, not to teach a tidy lesson, but to break us open for something far more alive than ease.
Through that wound, pride is cut down to its roots. The stubborn belief that we can carry it all, fix it all, fades. The thorn becomes a path for Christ’s strength to seep in and settle. Paul begins to see the strange, old truth: God’s power doesn’t wait for us to be strong. It rushes in where we are weakest. Like water through dry soil, it moves underground, unseen but sure. And what we thought would destroy us becomes the ground where mercy grows.
So we begin to thank Him for these barbed gifts. Not because we enjoy them, not because we don’t wince or ache, but because we’ve seen what they bring. They clear space for grace. They humble, soften, and shape us. These wounds, unwanted though they are, become holy ground. We might never ask for them. We might beg for their removal. But in their rough presence, we meet the strength of Christ that lives, breathes, and shines in the very places we thought we’d fall apart. And it is there, not in our rising, but in our breaking, that we are made whole.