Submitted By: Jonathan Reid
Profession/Background: Trauma counselor and former war journalis
Book Title: The Problem of Pain
Author: C. S. Lewis
Before Reading the Book:
Pain was never a theory for me—it was the backdrop of my life. I spent nearly a decade reporting from war zones across the Middle East and Africa. I’ve walked through the aftermath of bombings, interviewed children who had lost their parents, and watched entire villages disappear overnight. These stories didn’t just live in my notepad—they took up residence in my chest.
When I finally left journalism, I turned to trauma counseling to help others process what I, too, carried. But even as I listened to others’ pain, I quietly nursed my own unanswered questions: Why does suffering exist? Why would a good God allow this? I had long abandoned the religion of my childhood because it felt naive in the face of such suffering.
I didn’t think a book could change that.
Discovering the Book That Changed Everything:
A colleague handed me “The Problem of Pain” one gray Tuesday afternoon. I had just finished a particularly difficult session with a veteran who had lost both his legs to an IED. “I know you’re not into this stuff,” she said, “but Lewis writes like someone who’s walked through it, too.”
I was skeptical. I respected C. S. Lewis for his literary work—The Chronicles of Narnia had once lit up my childhood—but theology? I didn’t think I had the patience or the stomach for another “everything happens for a reason” sermon disguised as prose.
Still, the book sat on my desk, stubborn and quiet. One evening, I opened it during a long bout of insomnia. I planned to skim. I stayed up until 3 a.m. reading.
After the Book:
Lewis didn’t shy away from the darkness. That surprised me. He didn’t pretend pain was good, nor did he offer simplistic answers. Instead, he wrestled. He asked the same raw questions I had buried beneath logic and cynicism: If God is both good and all-powerful, why does He allow creatures to suffer?
What made Lewis different was that he wasn’t writing from a pulpit—he was writing from the battlefield of thought and belief. His logic was sharp, yes, but it was wrapped in humility and genuine struggle. He acknowledged that pain feels like an insult when it visits the innocent, but he also presented a God who risks giving humans free will—knowing full well it would cost Him, and us, deeply.
One line that hit me hard: “God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our consciences, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” I read it three times before putting the book down and weeping.
The Transformation:
Reading “The Problem of Pain” didn’t take my pain away. It didn’t magically fix the broken world I’ve seen. But it gave me a framework to see suffering differently. Pain, Lewis argues, is not a contradiction of God’s goodness, but often a consequence of love itself. The freedom to love, to choose, to act—these require the possibility of pain.
That idea began to uncoil something inside me.
I started re-engaging with faith—not as a way to escape suffering, but as a lens to walk through it with purpose. I began to pray again, hesitantly at first, but then with more honesty than I’d ever had as a child. I talked to God like someone who had seen the worst of the world and wanted answers, not platitudes.
In my work as a counselor, “The Problem of Pain” gave me language I didn’t have before. Not the kind that explains away trauma, but the kind that respects it while offering hope. I’ve handed the book to clients more times than I can count—not because it solves everything, but because it opens a door.
My Favorite Line & How It Helps Me Every Day:
“There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable.”
This line changed how I view every relationship in my life. Before, I kept people at a distance—afraid to feel more than I already had. But Lewis showed me that pain and love are not enemies; they are companions. To live fully, to love deeply, to hope truly—all of it requires the willingness to be broken. And that’s okay.
That quote reminds me every day to lean in instead of pull away. In moments when I want to shut down or grow numb, I remember that vulnerability is not weakness—it’s the price of real connection.
To Anyone Considering This Book:
Read this book slowly. Read it when you’re ready to confront your pain, not avoid it. Lewis doesn’t offer cheap comfort—he offers a sturdy, tested faith that isn’t afraid of hard questions. If you’re skeptical of religion, if you’ve suffered in ways others don’t seem to understand, this book is a companion, not a lecture.
“The Problem of Pain” won’t tie your grief into a neat bow. But it may—if you let it—introduce you to a deeper understanding of God, one who is not distant from our suffering, but who chose to enter it with us. It reminded me that belief doesn’t erase pain, but it can redeem it.
And that, I think, is a miracle worth reading about.