Surviving The Drift

 Waves crash in rhythmic fashion, and my mind runs back to that little piece of paper floating around my parents' house - a certificate from childhood simply stating, "Congratulations! Your child loves the water!" I may have relished any chance as a kid to splash in a pool but, as the years went by, a deeper question emerged: can I learn to love the crashing waves of betrayal? Grief? Pain? Can I adapt to the waters of the unknown that bring with them so much heartache? 

Since I was young, this bay called Resurrection has been my safe place, my escape. It's where I sat as I knew my beloved grandmother had likely only weeks longer to live. It's where I wrestled with the unspeakable loss of my Alex. And it's where I sit now, reading a book authored by a good friend and mentor all about about how to navigate the unexpected "massive thing" in your life... and survive. Now, slowly finding my way to the other side of trauma's consuming grip, I'm reflecting on how the water has become a metaphor for how I can cope. 

In the early days, the beach, the ocean, the lake - water of any kind - equalled fun and adventure to me. Now, it's become a sign that the tides of suffering have a strange way of washing you up against the solid shores of Grace. That even the things you think you cannot bear move you ever so slightly toward the One who always bears you up. Holds you near. Grips you tight. 

For so long, the drift of loss and seemingly limitless "massive things" felt as though I was being carried further and further out to sea with no indication of land. Pain has a way of causing you to forget the life jacket of hope and make you think you'll never see firm ground again. It tricks you into feeling like your life is at the mercy of unseen forces out of your control. It preys at all your fears, raises all your forever-questions, makes you believe faith is a lie. And yet, in the smallest of ways, you also witness proof as you drift that this pull of life's current is also part of your saving. That your "massive thing" could usher in a new post-trauma life that gives you greater trust, bigger love, deeper hope. 

On so many days, I didn't know if I would make it. If I could make it. I didn't know if it was possible to feel alive again as I was forced to nurse the wounds in my heart and take a risk on the Great Physician's ability to stitch up a broken soul. But here, sitting in this rocking chair on this deck that holds so many memories for me, staring out at these giant mountains, I can't help but say with the utmost assurance: "my strength comes from God, who made heaven, and earth, and mountains" (Psalm 121:1-2). 

That help has come in the form of empathetic hearts who held my pain gently while I tried to process it. It's come in the places like this where I've experienced momentary peace and told myself I could breathe again. It's come in song lyrics, Scripture verses, poetry, books, and even the stories of others who learned to survive their own "massive things." When the darkness, at times, felt so heavy and unceasing, these were the lighthouses in my storm, guiding me back and reminding me that land still existed, however far I felt from it. 

Massive things happen to us all and, God knows, I've seen my fair share of mine. But if I've figured out anything along the way, it's that once you figure out that they are inevitable, it's then up to you to decide what you'll do with them. Will your storm wash you up on Grace's shore, or will you let it prove to be your demise? You can either lean into the lifejacket of hope and believe it will prop you up even when your brain tries to convince you that you're sinking, or you can give up and let the waves carry you out to sea, never to find real living ever again. 

The choice is there for each of us. Which one will we pick?