“How are you doing… really?”
That question sticks itself out there, probing and unavoidable. When you are going through a life-changing experience, people want to know how you’re doing. And not the glossed over “life is still good!” answer. They want the truth.
How am I doing, really?
Well, I’m numb. I feel like I’ve been given this huge cross to carry and no reason to carry it. I feel distant from God. I feel as though everyone around me is seeing their faith grow, their assurance increase, while I’m just waiting.
And I don’t even know what I’m waiting for.
Waiting for the feeling of faith? Waiting for some divine outcome? Waiting to see all the pieces fit together as to why I, of all people, got breast cancer?
All I really know is that I’m waiting for this to be over. I’m waiting for my doctor to say “remission”, for my life to go back to normal, and to no longer feel like I’m fumbling around in the dark.
Call it a testing of my faith. Call it the process of grief. Call it any number of psychological issues you want. All I know is this is how I’m really doing. I’m walking down uncharted territory and I don’t know what is around the next corner. I spend a lot of time praising God to others and questioning Him to myself. I’m afraid to get close to Him because being close means walking a hard walk. I’m afraid that this will get harder and not easier. I’m afraid that other people will see how this journey counted for something and I never will.
Yet, what is crazy to me is that even in the doubt I still know God is God and He is doing big things. I don’t feel it, I don’t see it. But, I believe it. I know He is here walking beside me. I know He is making this journey count. I continue to hold on to that fact. Because even in the darkness of my own emotions, even when I don’t feel Him, don’t see Him, He is still there.
I’m reminded of the man in Mark 9 who asked Jesus to heal his son. Jesus told the father that all things are possible for one who believes. The father, much like myself, cried out “I believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”
Just because I doubt, just because I wrestle doesn’t mean I don’t believe. Even when God feels distant and my path seems utterly dark, my heart still clings to Him and fights against the unbelief that bubbles up.
So, how am I really doing?
I’m struggling. I’m fighting. I’m trying my best to believe.
But I’m trusting that God will prove Himself faithful yet again.