fine1
/fīn/
adverb, informal
1. In a satisfactory or pleasing manner; very well. see also: the lies we tell each other
I think the word fine may be one of most misused words in the English language. There was a time when if you said, "I'm fine", you meant you were actually doing fine and everything was going well. But now? Not so much.
I get it. We don't want to let people into our bubbles. We don't want to let down walls and show that we are humans, with emotions and all that...stuff. But being fine must be one of the biggest lies that we tell to the people closest to us.
If you google "fine meme" (which I totally did not do before writing this blog...), a lot of the images that pop up have to do with women saying (but not meaning) "I'm fine". From my observation, though, men and women both put on a face that they present to people, a face that often does not accurately represent our state of being.
Why do we put on a face? I think part of it is that we're afraid to be vulnerable around other people. Sometimes, that's justified. Our raw emotions, our genuine fears and thoughts and struggles, don't deserve to be cast about lightly. Some people are not safe people to be open around. This post is not about those people. This is about the ones who really do want to know how we are. The ones who want the truth, and want very much to treat our feelings with care. The ones we shut out when we answer the question of "How are you doing with?" with "Fine."
I'm sure someone who has studied psychology could form a more professional opinion than my own. But from my limited years on earth observing human nature, I've come to find that fine can mean a lot of things. Fine can mean:
"I'm tired and I don't have the emotional energy to hash out the particulars of what I'm feeling right now."
"I don't even know what I'm feeling, it's so jumbled and confused that I can't even make sense of it to me, let alone another person."
1. In a satisfactory or pleasing manner; very well. see also: the lies we tell each other
I think the word fine may be one of most misused words in the English language. There was a time when if you said, "I'm fine", you meant you were actually doing fine and everything was going well. But now? Not so much.
I get it. We don't want to let people into our bubbles. We don't want to let down walls and show that we are humans, with emotions and all that...stuff. But being fine must be one of the biggest lies that we tell to the people closest to us.
Why are we fine?
Why do we put on a face? I think part of it is that we're afraid to be vulnerable around other people. Sometimes, that's justified. Our raw emotions, our genuine fears and thoughts and struggles, don't deserve to be cast about lightly. Some people are not safe people to be open around. This post is not about those people. This is about the ones who really do want to know how we are. The ones who want the truth, and want very much to treat our feelings with care. The ones we shut out when we answer the question of "How are you doing with?" with "Fine."
I'm sure someone who has studied psychology could form a more professional opinion than my own. But from my limited years on earth observing human nature, I've come to find that fine can mean a lot of things. Fine can mean:
"I'm tired and I don't have the emotional energy to hash out the particulars of what I'm feeling right now."
"I don't even know what I'm feeling, it's so jumbled and confused that I can't even make sense of it to me, let alone another person."
"I've been hurt by your actions, and I question the sincerity of your asking me how I am, and I'm going to wait until I have a better idea of your intentions before I answer you sincerely."
"I'm not fine. I'm in pain and scared and I want help, but I don't know how to ask for it and I feel like a burden when I do."
"I don't know you well enough to know if you are a safe person to share my feelings around, and I've been hurt in the past when I shared with the wrong person."
"I don't think you can possibly understand what I'm going through, and trying to explain it to yet another person is too emotionally tiring."
"Admitting that things aren't fine will show weakness, and if I show weakness, everything is going to crumble in my life. I have to present a strong front to everyone, including myself."
Those are just a few - the list can go on and on. Fine has become the tip of the emotional iceberg, much like anger.
So what's the problem with putting on a face? Why is this such a big deal? More importantly, what does this have to do with the LDS religion?
If you walk into a congregation, and you take a superficial look at the people there, you're likely to come to the conclusion that everyone has their stuff together. Children are sitting in rows, well behaved and listening to the speakers, singing the hymns. Families are intact, husbands and wives love each other and their children, everyone is together forever. Every mom is Supermom, creating Pinterest-worthy cakes and making toilet paper rolls into beautiful wall art. Every family is well off, without financial worry or heartache or brokenness. That might be the conclusion that you come to, looking around.
And it would all be a lie.
People in that congregation are no strangers to heartache, brokenness, abuse, addiction, poverty, mental illness, disease, divorce, or anything else that humans suffer through on earth. But when we go to Church, when we worship on Sunday, so often we put on our Church Face. We want so much to look "normal", we want to look like we've got it all together, just for a moment, so that people don't see that brokenness and that pain. Maybe if we can make it look like that from the outside, we can forget what it's like on the inside, right? Maybe if we make it look good on the outside, maybe that will start to soak in on the inside. Maybe we can become normal too, like everyone else. But we aren't. And neither is anyone else. And that is okay.
In Luke chapter five, Christ and his disciples go and eat at the house of Levi, a publican. In the times of Christ, a publican was basically a Roman tax collector. They collaborated with the Romans, and because of that, along with a slew of other issues, they were hated by the Jewish authorities and considered to be sinners, unworthy of spending time with anyone but their own kind (ask yourself, how much do you love the IRS?). Yet Christ went to them, and ate at a feast with not just Levi, but "a great company of publicans". So the scribes and the Pharisees come to the disciples and ask them, "What are you doing? Why are you keeping company with these awful people? If you are bringing salvation to our people, the people of the covenant, why are you wasting your time with them?" Christ's answer teaches us in one sentence the whole purpose of the gospel: "And Jesus answering said unto them, They that are whole need not a physician; but they that are sick" (Luke 5:31).
There it is, in Christ's own words. He doesn't want us to come to Him because we're perfect. He doesn't expect us to have it all together. He wants us to come to Him in our brokenness and be healed. Because those who are whole don't need a physician. Those who have their stuff together, who have a Pinterest-perfect life all the time, who have the perfect family with the perfect children and the perfect house and the perfect life, they don't need Christ.
"I'm not fine. I'm in pain and scared and I want help, but I don't know how to ask for it and I feel like a burden when I do."
"I don't know you well enough to know if you are a safe person to share my feelings around, and I've been hurt in the past when I shared with the wrong person."
"I don't think you can possibly understand what I'm going through, and trying to explain it to yet another person is too emotionally tiring."
"Admitting that things aren't fine will show weakness, and if I show weakness, everything is going to crumble in my life. I have to present a strong front to everyone, including myself."
Those are just a few - the list can go on and on. Fine has become the tip of the emotional iceberg, much like anger.
Putting on our Church Face
If you walk into a congregation, and you take a superficial look at the people there, you're likely to come to the conclusion that everyone has their stuff together. Children are sitting in rows, well behaved and listening to the speakers, singing the hymns. Families are intact, husbands and wives love each other and their children, everyone is together forever. Every mom is Supermom, creating Pinterest-worthy cakes and making toilet paper rolls into beautiful wall art. Every family is well off, without financial worry or heartache or brokenness. That might be the conclusion that you come to, looking around.
And it would all be a lie.
People in that congregation are no strangers to heartache, brokenness, abuse, addiction, poverty, mental illness, disease, divorce, or anything else that humans suffer through on earth. But when we go to Church, when we worship on Sunday, so often we put on our Church Face. We want so much to look "normal", we want to look like we've got it all together, just for a moment, so that people don't see that brokenness and that pain. Maybe if we can make it look like that from the outside, we can forget what it's like on the inside, right? Maybe if we make it look good on the outside, maybe that will start to soak in on the inside. Maybe we can become normal too, like everyone else. But we aren't. And neither is anyone else. And that is okay.
The gospel is for the broken, not the whole
There it is, in Christ's own words. He doesn't want us to come to Him because we're perfect. He doesn't expect us to have it all together. He wants us to come to Him in our brokenness and be healed. Because those who are whole don't need a physician. Those who have their stuff together, who have a Pinterest-perfect life all the time, who have the perfect family with the perfect children and the perfect house and the perfect life, they don't need Christ.
And they don't exist either, so that's convenient.
The truth of the matter is that what we see on the surface, or rather, what we think we see, isn't the reality. Those perfect children are just children. They talk back, they do dumb things, they fight like cats and dogs and refuse to do chores and go astray, just like other children. Those perfect families are just families. They might be second or third marriages, or marriages that have struggled through addiction, or they might be struggling to keep their marriage together for something other than their children. Those perfect lives are just lives. Broken lives, hurting lives, lives that need healing and hope and love. More than anything, love.
We aren't perfect. We are sick. We are broken. We need His healing.
What can we do then?
First, we can put off the Church Face. I'm not saying we need to stand up and loudly declare everything that's going wrong in our lives. But we can stop trying to make it seem like our lives are perfect and that nothing is wrong. We can be honest about our struggles. We can express our fears, and our hopes, and our difficulties. We can let others know they aren't alone because we're here, struggling right beside them. When I've opened up about my struggles with depression, I have found that far more people struggle with it than I ever would have realized on the surface. Sharing our struggles opens our eyes to all the fellow travelers on the same journey.
Second, we can really get to know people and create a safe place for opening up. No one is going to want to open up if we haven't spent any time learning who they are. We need to have a genuine interest in the people around us who are coming here to be healed by Christ too. We need to make Church a safe place for sharing. We need others to feel that this is a place where they can share struggles, share deep emotions, and come away feeling healed and not hurt.
Third, we can act instead of just ask. Instead of simply asking how someone is doing, we can offer specific actions. We can observe and see what is needed and offer help accordingly. We can ask what we can do, instead of asking how they are doing. And yes, sometimes the help we offer will be refused. But sometimes, what someone needs is not another person wanting an explanation, but someone offering help. A hug. A commiseration. Advice. Whatever might be wanted or needed.
We're not fine. And that's okay. We're not whole. And that's okay. We don't have it all together. And that is okay. Christ wants us as we are. He wants us to come, broken, hurting, and falling apart, so that He can heal us. So that He can make us whole. So that He can work in our hearts, change us, and use us to reach out to the children who are still hurting.
The whole don't need The Physician. We do.
The truth of the matter is that what we see on the surface, or rather, what we think we see, isn't the reality. Those perfect children are just children. They talk back, they do dumb things, they fight like cats and dogs and refuse to do chores and go astray, just like other children. Those perfect families are just families. They might be second or third marriages, or marriages that have struggled through addiction, or they might be struggling to keep their marriage together for something other than their children. Those perfect lives are just lives. Broken lives, hurting lives, lives that need healing and hope and love. More than anything, love.
We aren't perfect. We are sick. We are broken. We need His healing.
What to do?
First, we can put off the Church Face. I'm not saying we need to stand up and loudly declare everything that's going wrong in our lives. But we can stop trying to make it seem like our lives are perfect and that nothing is wrong. We can be honest about our struggles. We can express our fears, and our hopes, and our difficulties. We can let others know they aren't alone because we're here, struggling right beside them. When I've opened up about my struggles with depression, I have found that far more people struggle with it than I ever would have realized on the surface. Sharing our struggles opens our eyes to all the fellow travelers on the same journey.
Second, we can really get to know people and create a safe place for opening up. No one is going to want to open up if we haven't spent any time learning who they are. We need to have a genuine interest in the people around us who are coming here to be healed by Christ too. We need to make Church a safe place for sharing. We need others to feel that this is a place where they can share struggles, share deep emotions, and come away feeling healed and not hurt.
Third, we can act instead of just ask. Instead of simply asking how someone is doing, we can offer specific actions. We can observe and see what is needed and offer help accordingly. We can ask what we can do, instead of asking how they are doing. And yes, sometimes the help we offer will be refused. But sometimes, what someone needs is not another person wanting an explanation, but someone offering help. A hug. A commiseration. Advice. Whatever might be wanted or needed.
We're not fine. And that's okay. We're not whole. And that's okay. We don't have it all together. And that is okay. Christ wants us as we are. He wants us to come, broken, hurting, and falling apart, so that He can heal us. So that He can make us whole. So that He can work in our hearts, change us, and use us to reach out to the children who are still hurting.
The whole don't need The Physician. We do.
