I'll Be OK, Eventually
When is it OK to not be OK?
January, 2023
I've been looking forward to the change of the calendar year, for no other reason than symbolism. Like passing a mile marker in a long race, it's a perceptible sign that progress is being made towards something.
Here in the United States, we often hear a traditional public greeting-and-response. It goes something like, "Hello, how are you?" "I'm fine, thank you." Of course, most people asking aren't digging for deep explanations. Those who answer aren't usually interested in pouring out their heart. That's especially true for total strangers, who are unlikely to appreciate the situation. When we're more comfortable, we might respond with phrases like, "I've been worse," or "not great, but getting better," or even, "pretty good, compared to yesterday." Over the course of this year, I've become comfortable responding to the question, "how are you?" With one word:
"Terrible."
It's not what people expect, but it's honest. The other person usually catches the atypical answer right away. A few times, people have nodded, paused, then said, "wait, did you say, 'terrible?'"
Of course, it matters a great deal to whom I'm speaking. There's no time to explain to the grocery store cashier what it means that things are awful. For the purposes of that person, and that transaction, I'm "fine." But fellow believers have the background needed to understand the implications of, "I'm not doing well, at all, right now." It means hurting, suffering, frustration, and grief. But it doesn't mean despair or hopelessness. Believers in Christ, alone, out of all people on earth, can respond to suffering with a consistent sense of trust:
But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies. – 2 Corinthians 4:7–10
Among the least-helpful things one can say to a suffering person are variations on the theme "it could be worse." When you stub your toe, that hurts. Knowing that giving birth is even more agonizing has nothing to do with the pain you feel. It's possible to look our own situation and realize that others are dealing with bigger, harder issues—and still be in pain. There's a natural tension in times of suffering; we grieve over our hurts but appreciate those things which went according to plan. Nothing I've experienced this year was unusual to mankind…but that makes it no less brutal.
This year, my mother was stricken with brain cancer, incapacitated, and passed away in a span of less than two months. As my mother was fading, my physically handicapped father was hospitalized for a Covid-19 infection. Partly from caring for him, I also contracted Covid, as did my wife. My sister, whose showbusiness career was hampered by pandemic measures, was trying to juggle being in several places at once. The day after my mother's funeral, I flew out of state to chaperone a weeklong youth conference; I'd known that would be a major stretch for my personality and abilities even when I'd committed to it months prior.
During the same year, my home church was faced with several difficult decisions. As an elder, that meant many long meetings. Many hard conversations. Many long-running stresses and concerns. My daughter began monitoring for scoliosis, as well as difficulties sleeping; she entered middle school. My son began high school. Personal health became a struggle. Vacations and home repairs were cancelled. My wife hit a deer while driving, then spent the Thanksgiving holiday in the hospital with a gastric issue. Her grandmother passed away the day after Christmas, even as pipes in our house froze and a storm ripped siding from the house.
All of this came amid a constant stream of plumbing, electrical, and mechanical hiccups amongst the family. Every time I blinked, it seemed, something else was broken or in need of repair. My sister and I started referencing a scene from an animated movie: two characters are tied to a log floating towards a huge waterfall. After many prior misadventures, all they can do is shrug and say, "I don't know about you, but I'm getting all 'funned' out…bring it on." At some point, being unphased and being numb look like the same thing.
Yet throughout was constant awareness of God's providence. I was uniquely prepared and equipped for all those circumstances: spiritually, mechanically, financially, physically, etc. In that sense, there was thankfulness and joy knowing the Lord armed me exactly as needed for these crises. But there also came a creeping sense of frustration: as if things were getting personal. On top of each major catastrophe, there were a thousand minor speed bumps, which all seemed unfairly bizarre. Simple repairs which turned out to be complex, reliable equipment which suddenly failed, improbably odd coincidences, badly timed memory lapses, planned solutions bizarrely overturned. I could battle through everything and get to a solution, in the end. Yet it seemed every task, no matter how simple, was "kicking and screaming" all the way.
That went well beyond feeling stressed. It was more like being thwarted: as if part of a deliberate effort to embarrass, discourage, and harass. To not merely be challenged, but bullied, pranked, and clowned behind the scenes. To suspect a literal demonic hand fiddling with things just for provocation. The details have often gone beyond my capacity to explain. I no longer laugh at comedy routines where a simple task suffers every possible thing going obnoxiously, improbably wrong. I cannot count the number of times I've prayed, "Lord, if you're trying to make me humble, I get the point, so please explain what this is about!"
More powerful, however, is a sense of being anchored in Christ. God is God, I am not, and that which He calls me to experience, He does for a purpose. That's not a flippant response to paragraphs of complaints. I don't understand the reasons—but I know they are there (Job 38:4). I don't see His plan—but I know it exists (Isaiah 46:10). I can't see the end of all these struggles—but He does (Ephesians 1:9–10). I'm honestly, deeply, achingly unhappy and bruised in this present moment—but equally convinced this is temporary (2 Corinthians 4:17). Afflicted, not crushed; perplexed, not driven to despair (2 Cor 4:7–10). I'm looking forward to a better understanding of how this phase of life prepared me to accomplish something greater (Romans 8:29).
Life might not be easy, or comfortable, or coddling, but what other hope do we have (John 6:68) except in Christ? For now, I'm content to say I'm not "OK." Nor am I "fine." I'm "terrible," and confidently looking forward to when that will no longer be the case:
For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us. For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the sons of God. For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies." – Romans 8:18–23
-- Editor
