What is Doing Well?

This morning as Bryan and I were lying in bed and trying to gear up to get Caleb and Joel (who were already wide awake and chatting loudly down the hall with each other), we were talking about the question we often get these days: "How are you doing?" Everyone always wants to hear "well" as the answer, but I was realizing that "well" probably means something very different to me and Bryan than it does to the one posing the question.

I started thinking about what "well" would mean to the person asking me or Bryan how I'm doing. Does it mean I'm not sad anymore? That I'm not hurting? That I've gone 24 hours without crying? That I'm moving on with my life and don't think about Samuel very much anymore? That I don't miss him? None of those things are true. None of those things may ever be true.

So how can I honestly answer "well" when asked?

Last week when my mom was still here, Bryan and I went out for dinner together and a movie. It was our first time to try a regular date night, and we were both a little apprehensive about it -- especially the movie part. While we were strolling and waiting for our movie time, I told Bryan, "I think I am doing so much better than I thought I'd be doing after losing Samuel." Bryan very quickly agreed with me, and I asked him to explain. He said that while we were at Egleston and he would project forward to Samuel dying, he wondered if "I would ever get my Kathryn back."

Then he asked me to explain what I meant. I told him that despite being very, very sad and tearful and fairly unable to take care of ordinary life tasks, I have a constant and steady peace underneath it all. I know in no uncertain terms that God is good. He is trustworthy. He is worthy of my praise, and I find I can praise Him even in my darkest moments. Though the world around me seems dark, and I feel burdened and literally weighed down -- sometimes to the point of suffocation -- the ground beneath me is firm and unchanging. I know the bottom can't fall out from under me because my foundation is Christ, and He is always the same. There is a safety underneath my grief, a sense of being held and kept on firm footing. As long as I make my home on the rock of God, I am safe and peaceful. I never would have thought there could be such peace in grieving, such confidence in my God, such assurance of His sovereignty. But He has shown Himself good and loving even here, in the death of my baby boy.

So, I think I am doing well. Does that mean I am not grieving anymore? Absolutely not. Does it mean I am the same person I was before Samuel died? Not at all. Does it mean I have stopped crying at unexpected moments? Nope. Does it mean I don't feel sorrow pushing down on me and taking my breath away from me? Sadly, no. But it does mean I am trusting God. I am leaning on Him. I am finding comfort in His character and presence. I am depending on Him to carry me through this season of heartache. He is my shelter, the rock that is higher than I, the cleft in which I hide. And because He is beneath me, I am doing well.