Sometimes the simplest truths hit the hardest. We feel them in our bones, in our weary muscles, and in the scars that tell stories we don’t always want to share. A statement I’ve carried with me, one that feels profoundly true, is:

​”Inflictions to the flesh are just that. The flesh was made to be a vessel. Let it take what it can. But don’t let it fill you up.”

​On the surface, it’s about physical pain, about the body’s capacity to endure. But beneath it lies a deeper, more theological truth that has given me immense comfort and grounding.

​The flesh, from a spiritual perspective, is a temporary home, a vessel. This body is a gift, created for a divine purpose, yet it is also fragile and susceptible to the pains of the world, the physical injury, illness, or the long, slow ache of exhaustion. It is a vessel, but it is not us. It is the earthly shell that carries our spirit and our true self.

​This understanding is what gives meaning to “Let it take what it can.” We live in a world where suffering is real. The body will be tested. It will bear the weight of past traumas, the sting of current struggles, and the uncertainty of what’s to come. You can’t prevent every scratch or avoid every storm. The vessel will be marked by the journey.

​But this is where the final, crucial instruction comes in: “Don’t let it fill you up.”

​This is the call to spiritual resilience. The suffering of the flesh, whether it’s the physical pain of a wound or the deep weariness of carrying too many burdens, it does not have to define or consume your soul. The theological battle isn’t with the pain itself; it’s with letting that pain become your entire identity.

​This resonates with the biblical idea that our true life is found in the spirit, not in the temporary, failing flesh. As Paul wrote in 2 Corinthians, “Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.” The vessel may be marked and weathered, but the spirit within can remain whole, vibrant, and connected to its source. The goal is to acknowledge the pain that comes with being human, but to fiercely protect the sacred space within so that the weight of the flesh doesn’t drown the life of the spirit.

​You are more than what has happened to your body. You are more than your scars, your illnesses, or your weariness. These are marks on the vessel, not on the soul it holds.

​The wounds inflicted on our vessel also present a profound choice: to either heal or to fester. When we allow our pain to control how we treat others, we’re not just losing our own battle; we’re spreading the infection. The hurt we’ve endured, if left to poison our interactions, doesn’t become a scar, it’s a reminder of a wound that has closed and healed. Instead, it becomes a wound that is constantly being picked at, an open sore that festers and boils over, spreading its toxicity to those around us.

​The Unintentional Infliction

​It’s tempting to think this only applies to people who are openly cruel. But often, the deepest pain is inflicted by those who are hurting themselves. An unhealed person can unintentionally lash out because they believe their own pain justifies their actions. Their flesh, their vessel, has endured so much that they believe they are owed a certain way of being, a certain response from the world.

​Think about a person who endured constant criticism as a child. As an adult, they might become hyper-critical of their loved ones, not out of malice, but because that’s all they know. Their unhealed wound tells them that this is the only way to “toughen up” the people they care about. In their mind, they’re not causing pain; they are just doing what they had to endure.

​This isn’t an excuse for their behavior. Instead, it’s a call for empathy and for a deeper understanding of the cycle of pain. When we recognize that another person’s hurtful actions might stem from their own unhealed wounds, it can give us the grace to forgive them, but more importantly, it allows us to see this tendency in ourselves. We all have moments where our past pain seeps into our present actions—a sharp word, a cutting joke, or an act of dismissal that we later regret.

​The key to breaking this cycle is self-awareness. It’s taking an honest look at our own pain and asking ourselves, “Am I using my past as a justification for my present actions?” True healing, then, is a process of grace. It’s allowing the divine to tend to our wounds so they can become a testimony of our endurance, not a weapon we use against others. The scars are a mark of what we survived, not a sign of what we’re still carrying.

​What does it mean for you to not let the flesh “fill you up”?