Spending a lifetime trying to answer the wrong question
(Excerpt from new book by Shane Stanford ‘Suffering with Purpose’—
The coffee shop was crowded but strangely quiet.
Rain pressed against the windows in uneven rhythms while conversations drifted softly between tables like background music no one was really hearing.
At a corner table sat four men who looked as though life had taken them in completely different directions.
The CEO wore success visibly. Tailored jacket. Expensive shoes. Two phones turned face down beside his untouched coffee. He carried himself with the confidence of someone used to being listened to.
The pastor looked older than he probably was. His collar was open, sleeves rolled halfway up, exhaustion resting permanently beneath his eyes.
The AIDS survivor sat calmly between them, thin but steady, with the kind of face suffering sometimes gives people—not hardened, but clarified.
And then there was the fourth man.
Early thirties perhaps. Plain clothes. No signs of wealth or status. Yet somehow he seemed the least distracted person in the room. While everyone else glanced around or inward, he remained entirely present.
The CEO finally broke the silence.
“You know what fascinates me?” he said. “People spend their whole lives trying to become successful, and once they finally get there, they quietly realize nobody ever explained what success was actually for.”
The pastor chuckled dryly.
“That’s because we confuse movement with meaning.”
The CEO pointed at him. “Exactly. My companies grew. My influence grew. My wealth grew. But somewhere along the way…” He paused. “I stopped asking why.”
The mysterious man leaned forward slightly.
“And what question replaced it?”
The CEO smirked.
“How do I win?”
The mysterious man nodded as though he expected the answer.
The AIDS survivor spoke softly.
“That’s most people’s question.”
The pastor sighed deeply.
“And churches aren’t much different sometimes. Attendance. Buildings. Budgets. Influence.” He stared into his coffee. “Even faith can become another way of asking how to win.”
The mysterious man studied him carefully.
“And what happened to you?”
The pastor laughed once, painfully.
“Life happened to me.”
Nobody interrupted.
“I buried too many people too young. Sat with too much grief I couldn’t fix. Watched prayers go unanswered. Watched good people suffer while cruel people prospered.” He shook his head. “After a while you stop asking where God is. You start asking whether anyone actually knows what any of this means.”
The mysterious man did not answer immediately.
Instead he turned toward the AIDS survivor.
“And what did suffering make you ask?”
The man sat quietly for a moment before speaking.
“When I was diagnosed, everybody around me asked the wrong questions.”
The CEO looked up.
“What do you mean?”
“They asked how long I had left. They asked how I got sick. They asked whether I was afraid.” He paused. “Almost nobody asked who I was becoming.”
Silence settled over the table.
The mysterious man nodded slowly.
“That may be the most important question we forget to ask.”
The CEO frowned.
“Who we’re becoming?”
“Yes.”
The mysterious man folded his hands together.
“Most people spend their lives asking:
How do I succeed?
How do I avoid pain?
How do I gain security?
How do I stay in control?”
He looked around the table.
“But rarely do people ask:
What is this life forming me into?”
The pastor stared at him carefully now.
“That’s easy to say until suffering destroys parts of you.”
The mysterious man nodded gently.
“Yes. Suffering changes people.”
The pastor leaned back.
“Sometimes not for the better.”
“That’s true,” the man replied. “Pain can make people bitter, fearful, selfish, cruel.” He paused. “Or compassionate.”
The AIDS survivor smiled faintly.
“I’ve seen both.”
The mysterious man continued.
“Suffering itself is not noble. There is nothing holy about disease or betrayal or grief. But suffering exposes what comfort often hides.”
The CEO crossed his arms.
“And what does it expose?”
“What we worship.”
The words landed heavily.
The CEO looked away first.
The pastor rubbed his forehead.
The AIDS survivor simply nodded.
The mysterious man pointed toward the crowded coffee shop.
“Watch carefully,” he said. “One person worships achievement. Another worships certainty. Another worships comfort. Another worships approval. And when suffering threatens those things, people panic because they discover their identity was standing on something fragile.”
The CEO exhaled slowly.
“So what are we supposed to stand on instead?”
The mysterious man smiled softly.
“Something suffering cannot take away.”
The pastor spoke quietly.
“Does such a thing exist?”
The mysterious man looked at him kindly.
“Yes.”
“What?”
The man paused before answering.
“Love. Mercy. Compassion. Presence. Truth. The ability to remain human in a world constantly tempting you not to be.”
The AIDS survivor looked down at his hands.
“When I was sick,” he said, “I learned something strange. The people who saved me weren’t always the smartest or richest people. They were the people willing to stay.”
The mysterious man nodded.
“Presence is one of the purest forms of love.”
The CEO leaned forward now, visibly unsettled.
“You keep talking about love and humanity like they’re the answer to life.”
“Not the answer,” the mysterious man said gently. “The direction.”
The pastor frowned.
“What’s the difference?”
“The answer makes people think they can control life,” he replied. “Direction teaches people how to walk through it.”
Nobody spoke for a moment.
Rain slid slowly down the windows.
Finally the CEO asked quietly:
“So what’s the question we should be asking?”
The mysterious man looked at each of them carefully before answering.
“Not ‘How do I avoid suffering?’
Not ‘How do I become important?’
Not even ‘How do I find happiness?’”
He paused.
“The most important question is:
What kind of person am I becoming through all of this?”
The pastor’s eyes filled unexpectedly.
The CEO stared at the table.
The AIDS survivor closed his eyes briefly as though hearing something he had learned long ago.
The mysterious man continued softly:
“Because one day your titles will disappear.
Your body will weaken.
Your accomplishments will belong to history.
Even your pain will eventually quiet.”
He leaned back slightly.
“But who you became through your living—that remains.”
The pastor whispered, almost to himself:
“So suffering is less about what happens to us…”
“And more about what happens within us,” the mysterious man finished gently.
The CEO laughed softly, though there was sadness in it.
“You know what’s strange?” he admitted. “I’ve spent my entire life asking how to build a successful company. I don’t know if I’ve spent even one full year asking whether I was building a meaningful soul.”
The mysterious man smiled warmly.
“Most people don’t.”
The AIDS survivor looked toward the window where the rain had finally begun to stop.
“So who has the answer?” he asked quietly.
The mysterious man shook his head.
“Maybe life is less about possessing answers and more about learning to ask the right questions before time runs out.”
No one spoke after that.
Because somewhere deep down, each of them knew:
The most dangerous thing in life is not suffering.
It is spending your whole life succeeding at the wrong question
