Picture yourself in a grocery store— the produce section to be exact. You’re minding your own business when you just happen to see a woman crying, quietly and softly, as she picks out pieces of fruit and places them, one by one, into a thin, plastic, produce bag.

What would you think in that moment?

You might assume she was having a hard day or just received some sad news. If you’re a naturally compassionate person, you may feel inclined to offer a tissue or a platitude as you pass her. If compassion is not your strong suit and your thoughts are less generous, you might simply dismiss her as a weirdo and not give her another thought!

Either way, you’ll most likely make some quick assumptions about this woman and her circumstances, and in this case, the chances of them being accurate are very slim.

The best explanation that I have found for what ails this woman lives on a page in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s 1850 novel The Scarlet Letter, and when I read this haunting line for the first time, it stopped my breath:

“In our nature…there is a provision, alike marvellous and merciful, that the sufferer should never know the intensity of what he endures by its present torture, but chiefly by the pang that rankles after it.”¹

Hawthorne’s words describe a phenomenon that I had long known to be true but could never have so succinctly and poignantly expressed. Our human experience does not allow us to waltz through life without a care. At some point, we are all exposed to a “present torture.” That, however, is not the phenomenon. The phenomenon is that we seem to endure the trial and leave it behind us, but despite our best efforts to move on, there is an ache associated with its memory that sneaks into our souls unexpectedly when we are just going about our day. It is the “pang that rankles after it.”

Can you relate? Have you ever been through an upsetting or traumatic experience and only realized the weight of its impact afterward? The awareness of the ache may have come days, weeks, or even years later. Something seemingly benign triggered the memory, and you were transported back to a place in your mind that you hadn’t planned to visit. And it hurts.

Keeping this perspective, let’s look back at that woman in the grocery store. Perhaps, she is not in tears because of any incident that is presently occurring, and she’s not crazy either. Maybe, like Hawthorne suggests, she is suffering from the lingering “pang” of a trauma from long ago, and some insignificant thing has just made the old wound fester and manifest in tears.

Can you guess what it could be?

Had you seen her just a few moments earlier, you would have noticed the carefree smile on her face as she pushed her shopping cart past the peaches. Then, you’d witness it begin to melt as she approached the ripe nectarines. Next, you’d see her pause abruptly and lean in closer to take in their scent. Finally, you’d feel perplexed as her lower lip began to quiver and her hands started to shake as she reached for the produce bag.

Even though you witnessed all of this, you would still be scratching your head. What’s wrong this lady?!

You see, there is no possible way for you to know that nectarines remind her of a happy memory she shared with her mother, and her mother is now gone. She has been for quite some time. The event that took her was traumatic. Her absence has left a “pang” inside the woman. She experiences this pang as a sharp, hollow ache. When the fragrance of the nectarines fills her senses, the way it only does at certain times of the year when they are in their peak season, she has an involuntary reaction. She weeps.

You, a stranger, could not possibly know this by looking at her. The only reason I know this is because I am that weird woman.

Hawthorne’s words comfort me because they remind me that I’m not alone, despite how isolated crying in a grocery store makes me feel. If he knew about this pang, then others must experience it as well.

Hawthorne may have been able to so perfectly describe this experience because he had at least one potential pang that I know about. His real last name was Hathorne. Many historians believe that he changed it (by adding the “w”) to separate himself from the shameful legacy of his distant ancestors, one of whom was a judge who approved the hangings of multiple alleged witches during the Salem Witch Trials of the 1690s.² Hawthorne may have felt a pang every time he wrote his name.

Everyone’s pang is different. Perhaps nectarines don’t make you cry, but you have a pang, too. You have lived through a “present torture” at some point in your life. When it was happening, you did not realize the impact it would have on you until after it occurred. Maybe, you’re still realizing it.

So what do you do with “the pang that rankles after it”?

The word rankles is not commonly used in our vernacular, but I knew what it meant instinctively when I read it. Regardless, I wanted to research its precise definition, and when I did, I noticed something quite remarkable.

There are archaic and contemporary definitions for the word rankle. The archaic usage means “to fester or continue to be painful (as in reference to a wound or sore).” However, the contemporary meaning is defined as “an annoyance or resentment that persists (as a result of a comment, event, or fact).”³

Just looking at the evolution of the usage of the word rankle tells us what happens when we leave our pang untreated! What was once something that caused us pain has the potential to evolve into “resentment that persists” in our hearts, or as Merriam-Webster puts it, “deep bitterness.”⁴

Yikes! I don’t want to let that happen.

When that ache creeps into my chest, and I’m standing in the produce department, or wherever else my wound has been triggered to fester, I can easily feel foolish and self-conscious. Those feelings can rapidly mutate into embarrassment and shame. Left unchecked, I find myself angry and bitter that this is my reality. I’m left to wrestle with the lie that I am irreparably broken and alone.

I have come to the conclusion, after many years, that it doesn’t help to pretend the pang isn’t there, minimize its impact, or get angry with myself because I feel it. Instead of stuffing that aching, hollow place inside of me with distractions from the pain, I need to admit it exists, whether I want it to exist or not.

I have sometimes imagined that my hollow ache is a figurative hollow in my soul: a deep, low-lying clearing in a wooded forest where I go and weep for a while under a canopy of trees, provided by my Heavenly Father. I find a quiet spot and pour out my lament to Him, and He isn’t upset with me for being honest with how I feel. He reminds me that He is near to the brokenhearted. ⁵

When I go to Jesus with my rankling pang, my hollow ache becomes a hallowed place—a sacred spot where only the two of us meet.

I have no idea what your pang is or how you experience it, but I know that you have one (at the very least). We all do, because we are human. Yours might stem from an unkind word that was spoken to you, and it rings in your ears when you look in the mirror. Maybe it hails from a devastating tragedy that you aren’t sure how you ever survived. It could be somewhere in between the two. Perhaps, it is all of the above.

The severity of your injury does not have to be extreme to be detrimental. Perhaps, the root of it may not even be obvious to you, but the fruit it has produced is evident in your life.

So what are you going to do with it?

I don’t have helpful steps for you to follow to heal your wound; everyone’s journey is different. I only know the starting place. You can confidently take that ache to your Heavenly Father and have a holy moment with Him. He knows everything about you. You are the only two who know exactly what your ache feels like. No one else can perfectly understand your pain the way He does.

When we cry out to Jesus from the deepest part of our ache, we experience the joy of knowing that He sympathizes with us. He knows what it means to be human. He knows about suffering. He also knows about the “pang that rankles after it.” He died on the cross and defeated it.

Because of what He did for us, that pang cannot follow us into eternity, despite its fearsome festering on this earth. You don’t need to run away from it. Instead, when you feel its rankling, recognize it as a reminder to run to your loving Savior and let Him soothe your ache with the joy of His presence. Psalm 147:3 says, “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds” (NIV).

I pray that you acknowledge your ache today and let God guide you on His path of healing and joy.

Is there a pang in your life that still rankles? Can you think of a time when your ache prompted you to seek God’s presence? I would love to hear about your experience!

¹ _{Hawthorne, Nathaniel. The Scarlet Letter. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields, 1850}

²_{https://www.biography.com/writer/nathaniel-hawthorne}

³_{https://www.lexico.com/en/definition/rankle}

⁴_{https://www.lexico.com/en/definition/rankle; https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/rankle}

⁵_{Psalm 34:18 (ESV)-“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”}