"How are you doing?", she asks with tears in her eyes.
It's that friendly lady whose name I forgot and cannot for the life of me remember in the middle of the cereal aisle at the grocery store.
"Ummm... Fine, I guess.", I say. A box of cheerios hanging from my hand above the cart.
She stares with piteous expectation at me for another few seconds. I stare back and slowly open my hand, dropping the cheerios on top of a small mountain of food. I finally cave and break eye contact, mumble something about how good it was to see her and thank you for all your prayers. We awkwardly hug across the two carts as several people wait anxiously to get to their Fruit Loops and Rice Krispies.
I do this impossible verbal dance at least three more times before exiting the store. Or escaping the store. Take your pick. My dad died in a house fire, then I miscarried my first child, then my mother-in-law got diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. All in the course of a month. I kid you not. One month. These days I cannot seem to outrun the uncomfortable question of "How are you?"
It's not that there is anything inherently wrong with that question, in fact I think most people have genuinely good intentions when they ask it. The problem is that I simply don't know how to answer it. Let alone how to answer it in the middle of a public place, to someone I barely know, who is engaging in small-talk with me over my melting frozen meals.
"I'm completely terrible, thanks for asking" "I haven't showered in a week, its just too much energy... so not great?" "I have four pints of ice cream in my cart, for just me. Thats how I'm doing" "I really would love to go break some valuable dishes today" "I'm still wearing pajamas at three in the afternoon..." "I'm not okay... but I'll be okay someday?"
Each answer flies through my mind as I stare at the well-meaning individual across from me, like a deer caught in the head-lights. More often then not, all that comes out of my mouth is, "I'm fine... I guess". Which isn't technically a lie, but sure as heck isn't the whole truth.
How do you tell someone that you might never really be "well" again because there is a giant, gaping hole in your heart; a messy wound that bleeds and scabs and then bleeds more. That something is terribly wrong because it seems that a vital part of you has gotten up and left, never to return. That you find it difficult to breathe most days because even in the grocery store there are constant reminders of who you won't see again until eternity, like honey mustard pretzels and cherry coke and his favorite type of chips.
The fact is, the hole of grief will always be a precipice that I edge around. And sometimes I fall in. And that's okay. Grief won't be rushed, healing won't be hurried.
We are the walking wounded. And we don't get to march through this life without accumulating some nasty scars. And the thing with scars is- they leave a permanent mark. Jesus held out His hands, with their twin holes, for Thomas to place his fingers in. He kept his scars, even in His resurrected body, to show that He understands our loss. That He has entered into sorrow. That He is not unaware of our pain. He is called Emmanuel, which means "God with us". And Jesus meant it when He took that name. He is with us even to the point of death, even to the living grief. Surely He has borne our sorrows and carried our pain. He is the only one who can ask "how are you?" and already know my truest answer.
As for you in the post office or Target or the movie theater or Panera that feels the need to ask how I am- I'm not okay today, but I will be.