I was standing in a Hezbollah camp with an AK-47 pointed at my head, and my only conscious thought was: "Well... shit."

Let me back up and explain how I got there. Because the path from signing divorce papers in a beautiful hotel on the Mediterranean Sea to staring down a terrorist's rifle involves a level of pain—and dissociation—that I never knew I was capable of.

But that moment, as terrifying as it was, taught me something I now tell every client I work with:

Pain is not the end. It's the touchstone of spiritual growth.

The Question That Changed Everything

In February 2023, my divorce was impending. I knew it would be finalized in May. Everything I had built over 28 years of marriage was crumbling, and I had a front-row seat to watch it fall.

My brother asked me a question I'll never forget: "What are you going to do differently this time instead of self-destructing through some ridiculously stupid coping mechanism like in the past?"

He knew my history. Twenty years of overeating until I was morbidly obese. Nine months of drinking too much to numb the pain. My track record of handling devastating loss was not impressive.

I thought about his question carefully. And then I answered honestly.

"I feel led to leave the country and serve people far worse off than me."

That answer surprised both of us. But it felt true. And so I followed it.

That decision propelled me to Southern Lebanon, and later Ethiopia, for over six months. I served refugees fleeing war. Orphans with no one to care for them. Widows trying to survive. Lepers cast out of society. Women who had been abused and abandoned.

Instead of running from my pain, I ran toward the pain of others. And somehow, in serving them, I found healing I never could have found hiding at home.

The Day I Walked Into a Terrorist Camp

I was in Beirut for a conference, staying in a beautiful hotel overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. It was the kind of place that should have felt peaceful—turquoise water, warm breeze, stunning views.

But Beirut isn't a safe city. Terrorist groups control certain neighborhoods. You learn quickly where you can and cannot go.

While I was there, an email arrived. DocuSign. I'd completed hundreds of those—contracts, agreements, routine paperwork. I didn't think much about it. I quickly initialed the document, signed it digitally, and finished within seconds.

Then I paused.

Wait. What did I just sign?

I looked at the document. It was my official divorce papers.

Twenty-eight years of marriage, ended with a few taps on a screen. I couldn't believe that was how it was ending. Not in a courtroom. Not with any ceremony or gravity. Just a quick digital document while I sat in a hotel room in Lebanon.

What happened next, I don't fully remember.

I have a trauma response—maybe there's a clinical term for it, maybe we need to invent one—where extreme emotional pain causes me to dissociate so completely that I'm not aware of my surroundings. It's like sleepwalking during the day. My mind just shuts down to protect me from what I can't process.

I don't remember leaving the hotel. I don't remember walking through the streets. I don't remember passing through any gates or barriers.

My first conscious thought was: "What a weird-looking flag..."

It had a star in the middle with red coloring. I didn't recognize it immediately.

Then my eyes lowered, and I saw where I was standing.

I was surrounded by enormous concrete barriers—shaped like that childhood toy, Jacks. The kind where you bounce a little ball and try to pick up small metal pieces. Except these were giant concrete versions. Anti-tank barriers, I would later learn.

Then I looked straight ahead.

About ten feet from me stood a man pointing an AK-47 directly at my head.

That's when I became fully aware of my surroundings.

I had somehow casually walked right into a Hezbollah camp.

"Well... Shit."

The terrorist's face was as shocked as mine. I turned around and saw a large group of armed men at the gate I had somehow managed to walk through. Everyone was staring at me in disbelief.

None of us could believe I had just strolled in like I belonged there.

My mind raced. How do I get out of this?

For a brief moment, I considered trying to explain my trauma. Maybe I could convey the nuance of dissociative episodes to the man with the rifle. But I quickly dismissed that idea. It didn't feel right to attempt psychological education with a terrorist.

Instead, I remembered advice from a missionary who had spent years living among Hezbollah. He told me, "If you ever find yourself in a situation with them, just say hi. Be kind and friendly and see what happens."

So that's what I did.

I smiled. I waved at the man pointing the gun at my head. And I simply said, "Hi."

He shook his head—I think my calmness and friendliness surprised him more than my presence.

Then I asked, "There's no way for me to properly explain how I ended up walking into your camp, but is there any way you'd be open to letting me leave?"

He paused. Then he waved me through, pointing toward the other side of the camp.

"Keep walking," he said. "And never come back."

I kept walking.

What Pain Taught Me

Here's the crazy thing about that story: I literally walked into more pain while trying to escape pain.

I signed divorce papers and dissociated so completely that I wandered into a situation where I could have been killed. The emotional pain drove me into physical danger I wasn't even aware of.

But even that moment—standing in a terrorist camp, fully expecting to die—became a touchstone of spiritual growth.

Because in that moment, I learned something I couldn't have learned any other way: Jesus had my back.

He had been with me the whole time. Through the dissociation, through the wandering, through the gates I somehow passed without being stopped. He was there when I became conscious again, and He was there when I said "Hi" to a man with a rifle.

My faith deepened through that pain. My trust deepened. I walked out of that camp with a certainty I hadn't had before—that God keeps His promises, even when we're too broken to keep ourselves safe.

Treasure Hunting Trials

My father used to call this "treasure hunting trials."

He meant that every painful, negative thing in our lives contains hidden treasure—if we're willing to look for it. If we treat pain as the end, as proof that nothing good can come from our suffering, we rob ourselves of the growth God wants to bring from it.

The phrase "pain is the touchstone of spiritual growth" comes from AA. I've adopted it because I've lived it.

Every piece of pain in my life—when I've been willing to walk through it instead of around it—has made me more of who God created me to be.

The near-death experiences I had growing up? They increased my capacity for pain, but they also made me more sensitive to others' suffering. I know what it feels like to almost lose everything.

Being mocked by kids in grade school because of my speech impediment? That made me more compassionate. I know what it feels like to be different, to be laughed at, to wonder if something is fundamentally wrong with you.

The divorce? That made me more patient, more empathetic, more understanding of others' suffering. I can truly relate to couples before or after divorce because I've been there myself. I've survived it.

The Jonah Moment

In November 2022, I tried to run away from all of it.

I didn't want to stay in marriage ministry. How could I? My own marriage had failed. I felt disqualified, ashamed, certain that God was done using me in this area.

So I made a plan to move to Florida and sell roofs door-to-door. A completely different life. A fresh start where no one knew my story.

But like Jonah and the whale, God stopped me.

The opportunity fell apart completely. Every door closed. Every plan crumbled.

And in my desperation, God comforted me. He reassured me that He wasn't finished with me yet. That He hadn't wasted the 30 years I'd spent helping couples, the education I'd earned, the experience I'd gained.

But He wanted me to focus on healing first. To get well. To repair my broken heart before I tried to repair anyone else's.

That's how I ended up serving as a missionary overseas. Not running from my pain, but walking through it by serving others in theirs.

The Touchstone

A touchstone is a test for quality. In the old days, gold was rubbed against a dark stone to reveal its true composition. The stone didn't change the gold—it revealed what was already there.

Pain works the same way.

Pain doesn't create who you are. It reveals who you are. It shows you what you're made of, what you truly believe, where your faith is real and where it's just words.

I didn't become more compassionate because of my suffering. The suffering revealed compassion that was already there—and gave me the experience to express it authentically.

I didn't develop faith in a terrorist camp. The camp revealed faith that had been growing through years of smaller trials—and showed me it was strong enough to trust even when a rifle was pointed at my head.

Pain is not your enemy. Pain is your teacher.

The question isn't whether you'll experience pain. You will. We all do.

The question is whether you'll let it grow you or destroy you. Whether you'll walk through it or spend your life walking around it. Whether you'll look for the treasure or convince yourself there's nothing worth finding.

I almost died in a Hezbollah camp because I was running from pain. But I walked out of that camp more alive than I'd been in years—because I finally understood that Jesus was with me, even in the places I wandered unconsciously.

Pain is the touchstone of spiritual growth.

I'm living proof.

If you're in a season of pain and wondering if anything good can come from it, I'd love to help you find the treasure. Check out my online courses at smalleyinstitute.com or reach out about coaching.

You can also text me at (303) 435-2630  or email [email protected] if you need someone to walk with you through the hard stuff.

What pain in your life has become a touchstone for growth? Or what pain are you still trying to walk around instead of through? Share in the comments—your story might help someone else see the treasure they've been missing.