Read

Genesis 50:20 “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.”

Think

In nearly every long-distance race, there is a moment where it stops being fun. The adrenaline fades. The crowd thins. And all you’re left with is the road and your own breathing. That’s when the real race begins. Not when the course is smooth or the finish line is near, but when everything in your body says, “Stop.” That’s when most people slow down or bow out. Not because they don’t want to finish, but because the pain is louder than the goal.

Pain changes the way we move. It makes every step feel heavier. It distorts perspective, making short distances feel eternal and doable things feel impossible. That’s not just true in races—it’s true in real life too. When you’re walking through grief, rejection, illness, betrayal, or heartbreak, the days get longer, and your spiritual legs start to shake. You begin asking silent questions. Why is this happening? Where is God? Does any of this still matter?

Joseph must have asked those same questions.

His life, as recorded in Genesis, is a case study in undeserved suffering. Sold into slavery by his brothers. Falsely accused by his boss’s wife. Forgotten in prison. Overlooked again and again. Yet he kept showing up. He kept trusting God even when it didn’t make sense. And eventually, years later, he stood face to face with the very people who had betrayed him. Not as a victim, but as a leader. Not as someone hardened by bitterness, but as someone softened by grace.

What he said in that moment is breathtaking. “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good.” That doesn’t erase what was done. That doesn’t excuse it. Joseph names the harm, acknowledges the pain, and yet still places it under the banner of God’s goodness. He’s not minimizing the suffering. He’s reinterpreting it.

The phrase “you intended to harm me” is one we know far too well. Some of us have been deeply wounded by others. Some of us have been let down by people who were supposed to protect us. And some of us are still carrying that pain around. Not always on the surface, but in the background of how we live and love and respond.

But Joseph reminds us that pain does not have the final word.

God doesn’t promise to prevent every wound. But he does promise to repurpose it. What others meant for evil, God can redirect toward good. That’s not sentimental. That’s not a motivational bumper sticker. That’s the shape of the gospel. The cross looked like the end, but it became the door to new life. The ultimate harm became the ultimate healing. That’s what God does. He takes what’s been broken and brings redemption out of it.

Think about it like this. In every marathon, runners face what’s called “the wall.” Around mile 18 or 20, their body begins to protest. The muscles feel depleted. The mind starts to panic. The temptation to quit is overwhelming. But experienced runners know something important: if you keep moving through the pain, your body adjusts. A second wind kicks in. Not because the pain disappears, but because you’ve trained for endurance, not just speed.

That’s the Christian life. We are not promised a pain-free path. But we are promised that God is with us in it. That there’s grace for the next step. That we’re being strengthened in the stretch.

Sometimes the strongest faith is the faith that says, “I’m still here.” Still praying, still forgiving, still choosing hope even when it feels costly. When the story hasn’t resolved, but you’re still standing. Still showing up for others. Still believing that God hasn’t left.

That kind of resilience doesn’t come from sheer willpower. It comes from knowing that God sees what you’re going through and isn’t wasting a moment of it.

The hard miles of your life are not detours. They are part of the race. They are forming you. And even if you can’t see it yet, they are also being used to help others. That’s what Joseph says in the second half of the verse: “…to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.” His personal pain was not isolated. It became the rescue plan for an entire generation.

Your pain may not make sense yet. You might not have the full perspective right now. But what if the comfort God gives you in this season becomes the comfort you’re able to give someone else later? What if the loss you’re grieving today becomes the seed of compassion for someone who will need you tomorrow?

This doesn’t mean we gloss over what hurts. It means we bring it to Jesus. He is the only one who can turn harm into healing, and loss into redemption. He’s not just the finish line. He’s walking beside you mile by mile. When your strength fails, his does not. When your confidence fades, his presence stays. When your hope feels fragile, his love holds steady.

Keep going. Not because it’s easy. But because he’s with you. And what feels like harm may one day turn into someone’s healing.

Apply

Think about someone in your life who’s walking through a painful or uncertain season. Take a meal, offer childcare, run an errand, or just show up and sit with them. Your presence might be the sign they need that God hasn’t forgotten them.

Pray

God, I don’t always understand why certain things have happened. Sometimes it still hurts. But I believe you see every tear and every step. Help me keep running through the pain. Use what others meant for harm to bring healing—in me and through me. Give me compassion for others who are hurting too. In Jesus’ name. Amen.