When someone tells me I’m ‘looking good’ or ‘doing well’, it is meant as an encouragement. And I casually wonder, is that on the “regular” scale? Or the all-things-considering-we-have-lowered-our-standards scale?

And then a part of me feels guilty. Thinking, we shouldn’t be doing good. I am NOT okay. I am barely held together with sticks and glue and at any moment I might fall apart.

My kids are here, and clothed, and fed; and I am here, and clothed, and mostly fed. By the grace of God we got out of bed this morning, but if we were left to our own schemes that may not be the case. Yet we lace up our strong boots and put on our brave faces over and over again.

And so many times in our day we are blessed because of those painfully hard and deliberate decisions. And so I can’t regret being strong and choosing life. But I wonder at the balance of authenticity. How can you marry genuineness and perseverance? Can you be real, without baring all you pain? Is it possible to even function while fully embracing your devastation?

Loss is a personal journey that can feel like a public theatre. And for a woman who has always had a plan, I am having to endure constant uncharted territory.

If death is the ultimate equalizer, then grief is the warm-up.