Be of good cheer?

There is a 'Peanuts' cartoon (Charles Schultz really was a genius) that I think about and use as an illustration often. You've probably seen it.
Snoopy is sitting out by his doghouse, in the snow, obviously freezing. Two of the kids are walking by and see Snoopy. One kid says to the other, "Look at Snoopy over there, freezing in the snow. We should do something about it." So they walk over to Snoopy and the first kid says, "Snoopy, be of good cheer!" And the second echos, "Yes, be of good cheer!" And they walk away.
The final panel is of Snoopy, with his quizzical look in his face, as if to say, "What the heck?" (But in cartoon, he's just got one of those balloons above his head with a big question mark).

As my family and I go through this past year, I've become painfully aware at how hard it is to know what to say to the question, "How is MG?" I appreciate their concern. But I'm torn between wondering if I give the simple, no-thought answer of "she's doing fine" (which isn't entirely true) or giving an honest answer that could be more than they really wanted to know.
Not that MG isn't doing well. But everything is relative. She's walking on her own, she can drive short distances, she's doing physical therapy and we're trying to figure out what 'normal' looks like.
On the other hand, her pain is still almost constant; she can't stand or sit for more than a few hours without needing to lie down; and we're being told the limitations are more than likely permanent.
That means MG will most likely never be 100 percent. This is a woman who loved long walks, who loved to dance, who liked to get up in the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep and rearrange the furniture in the house by herself; who was one of the first to show up at someones house in a time of need knowing instinctively how to care for them.
She loves to travel, and when we found out Roecker would be studying abroad in the south of France this semester, our first thought was here was our chance to fly over to see Europe - specifically, MG's dream of seeing Vienna. Her second thought was how there was no practical way she could physically make that trip.

I could go on and on about the things we may have lost, but we're really not typically negative. And beside, plenty of people live like this, or have it worse.
So we should be thankful.
And we are. Basically.
MG is possibly the most optimistic person I know. It's a great balance for my fear of disappointment that causes me to assume the worst so I won't be crushed when my hopes and dreams are shattered on the sharp rocks of reality.
And through this, we've had some interesting theological conversations. MG doesn't ask "why,'' but rather "how." By that I mean, we know James writes that we should count it all joy when we suffer trials or temptations, because the testing of our faith works toward creating Godly characteristics in our lives. But "how" are we supposed to experience that sense of joy in this situation? What is that supposed to look like, really?

A friend of mine - a strong believer who I have long admired - is in major league baseball. He said the prevalent theology in major league baseball is "name it-claim it;" you know, where if you "name" what it is you want and "claim" it in the name of Christ, and believe strongly enough, you'll have it.
That's understandable for a major league athlete, who has pretty much accomplished everything he has wanted in life anyway - although usually through developing an amazing amount of God-given talent. I know of a prominent player who, while going through a prolonged slump, was told repeatedly by his wife and pastor that he just had to "name it (get out of the slump), claim it (no longer in a slump), believe (that he'd be out of the slump), and God would deliver (him from the slump)."
Maybe. But it might not hurt to spend a little extra time in the batting cage, and reviewing video of his swing to see if anything had changed from when he was really hitting the ball well until now, or study what pitchers were getting him out on to see if he detected a hole in his swing.
But no - "name it, claim it, believe it will happen." And eventually this guy did get through his slump (as most great hitters will do).
I listened to NFL Baltimore Ravens' linebacker Ray Lewis at his pre-Super Bowl interview say his success was due to his relationship with God because "God doesn't use evil people. God wouldn't use me this way if I was evil." I love that Ray Lewis knows his Bible well enough to quote scripture freely and easily, and I absolutely believe that God's Word does not come back void.
Still, that theology sound too much like a friend of mine who, when asked about his relationship with God said - in complete sincerity - "God and I are tight. I'm more successful than I've ever been!"

Really? Then what is wrong with my life? More to the point, what great sin or lack of faith exists in MG's life that she's in the situation she is in?
I read a quote from Eugene Peterson that said, "It is impossible to understand our salvation as a life of untroubled serenity, a life apart from suffering, a life protected from disruption, a charmed life, a life exempt from pain and humiliation and rejection."
And as I read the stories of the heroes of the faith, that life - the life Peterson describes - seems to apply far more often than that of worldly success and a life of comfort and ease.

We pray for healing. But we are also starting to, more and more,  pray for endurance. What if God is indeed calling MG to embrace this disability, and not live in hope of escape? Is that a lack of faith on our part? Or could it be more in line with God's will?
And how do you embrace and live 'victoriously' in the midst of such pain?
We asked the neurologist about her problems focusing and remembering. He said her mind was so busy dealing with the pain and adapting to physical imitations that it had just not figured out how to focus for very long on any thing else.

So again, I come back to - how do we "count it all joy?" What does that look like, in practical, day-to-day terms?
Please understand that by no means do I suggest MG's situation is unique (except to her). I have friends who are facing end-of-life illnesses, and friends who have lived with disability their entire lives, and friends who have suffered emotional loss that lives with them nearly every minute of every day.
We understand that our "joy" is knowing that God is working to do His will in our lives, and every day he's transforming us more into the image of His Son, into perfection, into being the people we were created to be and will be ... in glory.

I have heard all about the "victorious Christian life." Unfortunately, I too often define "victorious" in earthly terms - maybe because that's what I want because it is what I know best.
And I'm reminded that while I'm made in the image of God, that does not make me God.
My friend Andy Byers writes that when he hears "God will never give you more than you can handle,'' we start saying things like "my God would never allow that." And we then define God in our terms, forgetting that "the Lord gives, and the Lord takes away; blessed be the Name of the Lord" (Job 1:21).

I'm now embarrassed at the times I've walked into a hospital room or visited a friend who was going through something - an illness, a death, the loss of a job, whatever - and in all heartfelt sincerity said the kind of things we're programmed to say:
"you really look good, considering ..."
or "It will get better; it just takes time ..."
or "I know it's hard now, but just trust in God ..."
or "Be thankful; it could have been worse ..."
or "There's so much they can do these days, and medicine is improving all the time ..."
or - well, you know. We all desperately want to say something, to bring some comfort to the situation. And we know words are really pointless, but it's all we have.
Often we know what we say is true, and we know the person we're saying it to knows it's true - God does use all things for His glory and our sanctification; and we are victims of living in a fallen world; and things could (almost) always be worse than they are; and time does indeed heal (or at least make things more bearable).
Still, I'm now aware at how often those well-meaning and well-intentioned phrases sometimes just trivializes the reality of the situation.
I've been on both sides, as most of us have. But I can tell you when you're on the receiving end of the support, sometimes the things people say are just, well, infuriating.
I remember once a relative whose baby died, barely a month or two old. We were at the house that night and her pastor came by and tried to comfort with the phrase, "Well, he's in the arms of Jesus now." That's a well-meant phrase and absolutely true and those of us who believe know that's the best place any of us could be; but to my relatives' credit (and I remember this so clearly, all these years later), she said rather loudly and forcefully, "But he should be here, in my arms, where he belongs!"
She was being honest. That was no sign of lack of faith and no intentional insult of a pastor saying what pastors are expected to say; it was just pure heartfelt honesty and truth - babies are supposed to be in their mothers' arms; not the arms of Jesus.
My own parents are, I fully believe, with God, in heaven, free of the cancer that took my mother and the breathing problems that took my father. Our little girl Catherine is in heaven, free of all the handicaps and pain that limited her too-short life here on earth. Yet there are still times when I wish my mother and father could be here for me to talk to, to see their grandchildren; and yes, we still miss Catherine.
The pain remains.

Which brings me back to the question, "How is MG?"
I guess the answer is, transforming. Changing. Constantly. Painfully.
With no lack of faith, no loss of hope.
Earnestly seeking to understand 'joy.'