This Shore, Part I

I remember when I walked out onto this beach, sands of joy and an ocean of grief lapping up on the shore.  It was just over a year ago.  I remember their words, sensing something was wrong. I remember squeezing my husband's hand- the only one in that doctor's office who loved her like I did and the only thing that made it all real.  I remember telling him through the fear and trembling that if who He is ever mattered, it mattered now.  That if we were ever going to trust Him despite our circumstances, it was going to be now.  And there I was, on this shore, staring out over a great ocean of heartache and pain.  

The Rescuer walked out onto the sand with me that day. 

There were days when the ocean swallowed me up in its grief and tears and heartache.   I was never more aware in those moments of pain so deep I couldn’t breathe, how very much I needed a Rescuer. He never let go, but I was swimming.

A year out from that ultra sound and several months beyond her funeral, I’m back on the beach and walking along the shore.  The water is still there, the waves lapping at my feet.  A soft reminder of her, of whats broken.  A reminder that I’m on the shore and that I forever will be.  And I am thankful for the shore.  The lapping of the waves around my ankles a constant reminder that I need Him, and that He is there- Jesus is always, always there.  The waves, the pain- a gift. Give thanks in all circumstances. (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18)

Its important to look up when you’re walking on this shore.  Because if you don’t look up, you’ll only see the waves lapping, and you won’t see the rest of the gift- the beautiful scenery.  The hot sand and the vibrant sky and the light in his eyes when you say that yes, of course you want to play, and absolutely you would like to be the helicopter.  You’ll miss the green palms stark against the blue sky, the warmth of the sun beaming down on your shoulders, the strength of his arms wrapping you up in a hug at the end of the day.   

Its so important to look up, because its not all the waves- not ever.  There is always more to see.

There are days when I’m making dinner and I realize I’m knee deep in the water.  I sigh, breathe in a deep and shuddering breath.  I feel the current of the waves more strongly, pick up my skirts, and slowly wade back to the shore where I can finish making dinner.  Because as important as looking up while you're walking this beach, is to keep on walking when you can.  

There are moments when I wish I could swim.  When I wish I could go back to that place- immerse myself in the heartache and the tears if only for a moment to see her again and to hold her again and to remember it all again.  But you can’t always swim when you want to, because there are people on the beach who need you.  The little one, he’ll see the salty sea tears streaming and ask “why, Momma?”  And you’ll say, “Because, Love, I was swimming.” And you’ll explain that sometimes Mommas swim and that’s OK, and you’ll squeeze him tight and ask him if he wants to play trains, and just like that, you’re up and out of the water again, more aware than ever before that you can’t swim when there is someone waiting for you on the beach.  You can go when its quiet, when night falls and your head hits the pillow and no one is waiting.  But when someone’s there, on the beach looking for you, you have to stay in the shallows, where you can reach them and they can reach you and where you aren’t drenched in the salty wetness, too far away for their heart to find yours.

And the waves lap at my ankles and I keep walking.

Then the swell comes.  Because there is One who holds the seas in His hands, and He knows when it is time to swim- He knows that you must if you are going to continue to grow and change and become who you are suppose to be.  At His word, the swells are released from the place of His keeping and the waves crash over me and drag me out to sea.  And I’m there, in the deep.  Remembering and feeling and weeping.  The pillow is drenched, and I’m through half a roll of tissue, and I’m gasping for air because all I want in that moment under the waves is to hold her again.  All I want is to be in that place where he held her and I held her brother, and we listened to him talk about his new sister’s “yiddle” nose and he saw nothing wrong- just the sister he had prayed for and talked about for seven months.  And he loved her and we knew her and we held her and while my lungs scream for air I stay under because it feels good to feel it all again- to be soaked and submerged deep into the pain and the broken and the grace and the mercy and the love and somewhere, leagues under the surface, there’s the joy. Even here, at the bottom of this ocean of heartache and grief.  It is beautiful in the deep, because in all the brokenness, He was there.  And He is only good.  It is beautiful here beneath the waters of heartbreak because she was a gift, and to remember her is to feel the slicing pain of loss but to feel the elating joy of Life.

Today I’m swimming.  The swell came last night, and this morning He’s taken me by the arm and guided me to the surface, but before I swim back to shore, there’s a story to tell.  One must be in the deep to tell the story because that's where its raw and its real, and that’s where it is its most lovely.  Where the scars are red and the limbs are covered in fresh scrapes from being battered against the ocean floor, but where the deepest, purest, most astounding joy is found.  Isn’t it when we’re hurt that we feel the most and that His mercies become so very clear?  Isn’t it when we let ourselves feel the pain the deepest that His goodness and glory is revealed in the best of ways? 

So its with wet hair and tired lungs that I write today, from the deep, where I remember and feel and where I can share the story of how the day she was born was the same day she left and of how He is only ever good. 

(To be continued this week with the story of my sweet Jubilee's birth day)