We're Not Alright - But We're OK

A few years ago, Lynn and I made what was either going to be the biggest act of faith or foolishness of our lives. Friends were concerned. They wanted the best for us but sensed there was great uncertainty and risk ahead. I tried to be reassuring and said, “We’re going to be OK . . . we just don’t know what OK looks like yet.” There was a little bit of hope and humor there. I needed both.

We have indeed been OK, and actually more than OK, since that uncertain time. I have often thought about that simple statement, though. I have come to notice that there are many ways to be OK, many ways to have a rich and fulfilling life. Sometimes it’s when we feel things are going well. But there are other times - times when things are hard and even painful. What about being OK then? Can we be OK when things are not alright?

Truthfully, there is almost always something that’s not alright for us. A good friend and pastor reminded me of this recently. She was leading our church in prayer on a Sunday morning and noted how we usually respond to that familiar greeting, “How are you doing?” With very few exceptions, we say, “I’m good.” Most times that’s the best response. The first greeting when crossing paths with a friend isn’t usually the time to bare our souls. “I’m good” is good enough. But she invited us to notice that there are certainly times when we are anything but good. Her invitation was to acknowledge sorrow and grief as part of our lives too - recognizing that it’s OK to not be alright.

Sitting there in that quiet moment, I thought to myself, “It’s both.” We can be OK and not OK at the same time. We can experience joy and sorrow in the same moment. We can be with someone who is suffering on a day when we have been celebrating. Birthdays, anniversaries, and funerals can happen on the same day. Part of being human is to acknowledge both.

My sister died from cancer a little over a year ago. It’s still hard to believe. I sat beside her in her hospice room for almost three weeks until she passed. During that time there were both tears and laughter. There were prolonged moments of grief as well as times when warm and comforting memories came to mind. Anita was my younger sister and my only sibling. She was a writer and newspaper editor. She had a way with words, to say the least. Her wit and sense of humor showed up in some surprising ways during her final days.

I remember one conversation when I asked her if there was anything she needed. By this time, she was sleeping a lot, and I wasn’t sure how well she was hearing me, but she roused a little and said, “Nothing.” I replied, “Well, I’m good at nothing.” And without missing a beat, eyes still closed, she said, “Yes, you are!” She had the last word and seemed to take great pleasure in it, leaving me laughing out loud beside her on what was soon to be her deathbed.

She had a few more lucid moments in those days. I would often ask how she felt. Her response was always, “I feel great.” I thought, “Well, I’m glad you do because I feel awful.” But while I felt awful, I was thankful she wasn’t in pain and seemed at peace. Those days were hard, but they were also good. If you had asked me, “How are you doing?” I would have honestly replied, “I’m good.” (Side note: Anita was often my proofreader and editor so I may need you to read with extra grace from now on.)

Have you noticed how joy and sorrow often seem to occupy the same space? Anyone who has been a fan of the Seattle Mariners baseball team or the Arkansas Razorbacks football team knows this to be true. And anyone who has sat with someone in a time of grief and suffering knows it too. Human nature seems inextricably tied to suffering. But then, even in suffering there is laughter that surprises us. It is both. I’m not alright and I’m OK.

Oddly enough, I sometimes find it easier to accept suffering than joy. When someone close to us is hurting, it can feel disrespectful or lacking in compassion to enjoy something good in our own lives. How can I laugh when someone I love is grieving? How can I celebrate when someone else is suffering?

Could it be that receiving the goodness given to us is not a denial of someone else’s pain? Perhaps it is an expression of what it means to be fully human.

Tiffany Clark serves as a spiritual director and a full-time lay minister at Christ Church, Georgetown, in Washington, D.C. She has firsthand experience with people in conflict zones around the world and writes about the importance of recognizing when we need to step back and recenter around God’s goodness in our own lives. While it may be difficult, she says, “Empathetic engagement in a situation that is not our own can lead to virtual drowning. Remember to live in your own skin and the set of circumstances God has assigned to you before attempting to connect with what someone else is going through.” (If you’d like to read more of her perspective, here’s a link to an article I found insightful: https://renovare.org/articles/peace-in-the-face-of-war)

But it’s hard to come to terms with why this is the way it is. That question of “why” has probably been asked by every person who has ever lived. Philosophers and poets speak with eloquence. Preachers speak about hope, but the question lingers. There’s no completely satisfying answer because what we really want is relief, for the pain to go away.

Parker Palmer, an author who means a lot to me, tells of being stuck on the side of a cliff while attempting to rappel during an Outward Bound experience. He found himself frozen, unable to move up or down. Someone offered him this advice: “If you can’t get out of it, you might as well get into it.”

In Palmer’s case, the only way out was down. I get it, but there are plenty of times when I sure wanted to get out of it.

We have a natural tendency to withdraw from pain. The hot stove, a loud noise, an angry person will cause us to recoil quickly. We want to do the same with sorrow and grief. And if we can’t get out of them, we want to get through them as quickly as possible.

After Anita passed, I noticed that I was eager to move through my personal grief. I was anxious to resume my life as it had been before her illness. I think I noticed impatience in others too. They seemed eager for me to move from grief to hope, as if they wanted me - maybe even needed me - to be OK as soon as possible. I wanted that too. But sorrow has its own pace.

Maybe part of becoming whole is learning not to rush through life’s experiences. Not to glorify suffering. Not to pretend that pain is somehow good. But knowing that some things cannot be fixed or hurried. They can only be lived. And perhaps joy is the same way.

There are moments when laughter arrives in the hospice room. There are celebrations while someone we love is hurting. There are days when we can truthfully say both, “This is terribly hard” and “Life is good.”

Jesus said, “I have overcome the world.” But just before that, he said, “In this world you will have trouble.” Both are true. Maybe wholeness, being fully human, isn't choosing one over the other. Maybe it is learning to receive the life that contains them both.

Sometimes things are not alright. And still, somehow, we can be OK.