The ocean was stirred up by a hurricane and dark, ominous clouds interrupted blue Carolina skies when I went to walk on the beach Sunday morning.
I prayed as I walked–clutching a prayer rope that tethered me and my precarious heart to a shifting, uncertain shoreline being pounded by ferocious waves.
The waves echoed the gut-wrenching grief in my own heart:
Grief over people, places and shifting circumstances. Grief from shaken trust, unanswered questions and inner confusion about life’s weightier matters. Grief over the state of my own mind, soul and heart that felt (and still feel) so broken in so many ways and for so many reasons.
Every so often I would stop, turning to face the enormity of the roaring ocean that seemed like it could easily swallow me up. The questions, confusion and pain felt too heavy to carry–and the tears that usually come easily to my sensitive soul to relieve and release burdens seemed stuck inside me. An empty, hollow feeling settled in instead.
“Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again…” the lyrics from one of my favorite Simon and Garfunkel songs seem to sneak in my mind in such moments. No matter how many rodeos I seem to have with change, pain, and grief, it only becomes more familiar, but never easier.
The old questions that have no good answers swelled inside of me:
Why does it have to be so hard? Why does it have to hurt so bad? Why do people (including me) have to suffer so much–and cause others to suffer?
Why do our hearts have to be pounded by an ocean of grief?
I don’t know if I’ll ever understand on this side of the grave, much less have relief or answers to the age-old questions.
As I walked, a lone pair of flip flops, far away from any owner, caught my eye. The black sandals were covered with colorful, iridescent butterflies.
Butterflies are my sign that someone I love who’s left this life is praying for me. Butterflies on flip flops, no less.
“Keep walking,” the strappy shoes seemed to say to me. “Keep going. Keep praying.”
I walked on some more, until I noticed a subtle shift in the stormy skies. Sober bands of sunlight began to make their way through clouds, illuminating the breath of ocean mist and soft tracks left behind on the shoreline by turbulent waves.
The light seemed to wrap around the heavy baggage of confusion, pain and grief I was carrying.
The growing light didn’t take all the pain away or make everything all better–but it seemed to seep into me just a little bit of strength that I didn’t have before. It’s not a strength that made me feel “full” or “happy”–but more like a quiet hope of the humblest sort–like one of my children whispering to me at night in a darkened room:
“I am with you.”
I’ve given up on the platitude “everything is going to be okay” because it just doesn’t work for me. I know that “everything” probably won’t be “okay”–because life is not perfect and there is always some level of pain and suffering and things not working out the way we all hope, even when life is going relatively well.
But, certain moments seem to warm my heart, even if only in the humblest degree, to the hopeful feeling that things could get “better.” Even if it’s only in a win-some, lose-some kind of way.
Some days the sky is dark and the waves are pounding and my heart is writhing within me– but, the sunlight is still there, even if it is faint or hidden. In such moments, I have to remind myself:
I am not alone.
May the truth of that dispel some clouds and enlighten my darkness.
