The Unasked Question

"How are you?" "I'm fine, how are you?" "Oh, I'm fine." "Great! See you later."

That's how most conversations start and end. The words are automatic, regardless of whether they're true. I say I'm fine, you nod, and we both smile and walk away. The end.

Chris and I have some friends who've recently suffered a double loss--their first child through a miscarriage, followed closely by his father. We called, prayed, sent a card. They were on our hearts and minds often during the days right after. Then we saw them, had them over. What do you say? It's awkward. We don't want not to ask; that would be rude. We don't want to pry, pouring salt on the wound. So we tread lightly, dancing around the edges of their pain, letting them know we care, but not delving too deeply. It's awkward.

I get that look from people now. People don't ask me how Addison is. Instead of asking the obvious, they tell me how good she looks, or compliment her outfit, or say how big she's getting. (Which always makes me laugh--she's almost nine months old and weights 13 1/2 pounds. There's nothing big about that!) Often I get that awkward silence, or the compassionate look, but nobody asks the real questions. And usually that's okay. I don't want to answer the real questions.

But sometimes I just want someone to say, "Sarah, how are you doing? I know your world fell apart last year, and that you're moving on, but how are you doing? Are you making it? Are you holding on to joy? Are you secretly falling apart? How are you?" But it's a delicate balance; just the right person has to ask. I don't want my mom to ask; she's too close. I don't want casual friends to ask; they're not close enough. My best friend already knows; she doesn't have to ask.

There's not an easy answer. If somebody at church says those things to me, I'll either fall apart or keep my resolve to be steady, hopeful, a little distanced, depending on who it is. And I have no easy answer, either. On some days, my reply would carry only worry, fear, dread. On others, I'd be full of hope, peace, joy.

Why are we unsure around others in pain? Is it because of the very fact that when we're in pain, one wrong word can send us in a downward spiral? I want you to ask; please don't ask. I don't know what I want.

No, I do know: I don't want you to be cavalier--I don't want you to make light of it, or pretend it doesn't matter. On the other hand, I don't want you to be a doomsayer--Don't act like having a child with a medical syndrome is the worst thing that can happen. Don't act like her life is less because she might accomplish less. It's a balancing act. I guess that's why we're awkard. Balance is hard to come by.

It's lonely, in this place. I know of only a few people whose children have life-altering diagnoses. And even then, nobody else knows how I feel. It's like Matt Mooney said, pain cannot be measured, and it cannot be compared. It can only be experienced. Nobody else can compare their pain to mine. Nobody can weigh theirs against mine. I am alone in this place.

Then again, I'm not alone. I am never alone. I don't know exactly how--theology has never been my strong point--but Christ says He can identify with all my sufferings. He never had a child with this syndrome, yet He can identify. How? I don't know. I don't have to know. He says it; I believe Him. When I'm surrounded by a sea of people and feel utterly, hopelessly alone in this journey, I hear Him whisper, You are not alone. I will walk with you. I will take care of her with you. I will love her, too. You are never alone.

I can't expect others to do what I'm unable to--know exactly what to say to a friend in pain. Know when to ask, when to refrain. Know when to be joyful, when to mourn. It's just awkward.

That said, a particular woman approached me at church last night. I only talk to her once in a while; each time, she asks me how I'm doing. I can tell, from the look in her eyes, that she means it. She's not asking out of social obligation. She truly wants to know, but she doesn't pry. Her one look conveys that she's praying for us, hoping with us, rejoicing and mourning for us. And if I wanted to say how I'm really doing, she'd keep on listening. I imagine, if Jesus were here on earth in the flesh, His eyes would carry the same look.

In the end, we're all going to suffer. Very few of us make it through unscathed. We lose parents, spouses, children, jobs, homes, health, sanity, peace. If I can learn anything through my life with a child whose needs will be greater than I'd imagined, it's that pain can be used. It can mold us, shape us, soften us. And if we let it, it can give us that look--the look that conveys the love of Christ to somebody else who's hurting. We have to push through what's awkward. We have to pay attention to somebody other than ourselves. We have to be willing to hurt for, hurt with, another.

I don't want life with Addison to be in vain. She's a gift in herself, just being one of my children, but her life can be something huge, something great, if I let Christ work. I guess that's what I'd say if you were to ask.