Waves of grief

Longing and love and learning to sail my ship

Grief is strange. It feels like something you get the privilege to watch calmly for a while, just sitting on the sand, watching the waves roll in and maybe on to someone else, but not you, you with your dry towel and your snacks. And then suddenly it’s not out there, but it’s right here, happening to you; it’s rushing on you like the sneaker waves on the Oregon Coast, you are no longer an observer but a participant.

The waves are almost always bigger and more powerful than you think. Before you know it, you are sucked out to sea, it’s dark and cold and salty and you might not make it back to shore. Nothing can prepare you for such a thing, even the strongest swimmer is vulnerable.

Grief feels deadly, like ocean tides, like it will gobble you up and steal your breath. But although we can avoid getting to close to the water, grief can’t be avoided. It’s not possible to love and not then mourn.

One of the kids and Dad, surf-fishing on the Oregon Coast

Adam and I used to kayak and swim in the ocean almost every day. We lived on the beach, so the Pacific was a home, a playground, a safe place. We knew its moods, tides and currents. We knew when to stay and when to go, when to paddle and when to rest, when to fish and when to lounge, when to breathe and when to hold your breath.

That’s what having a baby is like for me. It’s the call of a vast and welcoming ocean, one that can suck you under if you aren’t careful, one that plays with you and makes your heart race with love and excitement. I am a good swimmer, and good at knowing the ocean. I am also good at having babies, and I am the sort of person who always wanted as many kids as possible. But, now, in my 40s, it seems that possible has puttered out at three, like a promised swell that tops out at three-footers.

And three is wonderful. Beyond wonderful actually. Miraculous.

We have one beautiful, quiet, hilarious daughter, one spunky, sensitive, inventive son, plus our final brawling boy who seems destined for life as a defensive end or John Henry or both.

I am deeply grateful for the kids I have. I know that it could have been different, could have been less, that all love is a gift beyond reckoning. But I watch new dads carefully patting the behinds of squirming newborns in the family commons of my work. I hold babies for stressed and tired new mamas who just need to sip their coffee for a minute and find the pacifier without fielding the hungry hands of a tiny being. I tell new families “welcome to church” and I smile at their little ones. And as I do so, I want the feeling of weight on my chest, of another tiny person, another adoptive miracle, another little one to love. I wanted a big family, and I got the mid-sized, unique, powerful, beautiful one that I have. It’s a paradox - I’m relishing every moment in this beautiful ocean and yet fully aware that my feet do not touch, that the swell I see in the distance is coming for me, ready or not.

Grief is here, in my everyday life, lapping at my toes and reminding me that time eventually catches up, that all things must end. I have tried to talk myself out of it, but I have loved, so this grief is deeper than logic. It stings my eyes and takes my breath away when I least expect it, like a wave that hits you in the face because you mistakenly thought the set was over.

Today, on the way to work, I drank coffee out of my Pop’s mug, one with running horses on it, the one I brought home from his kitchen. I was humming to the music, looking out at the beautiful blue sky and hearing my capricious two-year-old chatting at me from the backseat. I did not expect to be visited by a ghost.

But he was there - it was a flash of memory or déjà vu or maybe he really did pat my hand as he’d done so many times. It was a little chuckle, just a wink on the breeze coming in my open car window, a smell, something I can’t quite name. My eyes immediately filled, grief lifted the bow of my little craft and threatened to tip me over with its powerful push and pull.

Jerry had children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, oh and some adopted kids like me. He’d had a big, beautiful life. There was nothing left he wished he’d done, he had no regrets. His death was not an untimely tragedy, we all got to say good-bye, we let him go with love. But grief doesn’t care about that, just as the waves crash whether I’m ready or not. I can’t call and ask him for advice anymore; he’ll never pour me another cup of coffee; he’ll never say “well, hi!” in his genuinely tickled way when I walk through the door or call him on the phone, or tousle my kids hair with his giant hands.

As soon as this thought strikes me, I am out to sea, sitting dazed in a heap of shipwreck, wishing for all the world that there was warm sand beneath my feet instead.

I am building a life raft out here, one of loved ones and memories and horses and writing and work and faith. But sometimes the waves are too big for my ingenuity, and life rafts are not cruise ships. I am adrift more often than I would like, surprised by tides of grief, tearing up in public.

Perhaps it’s only that I don’t have enough practice. I will learn to live with my longings, to soften them, to see the beautiful edges, the way waves make the beach more stunning. Just as diving under a breaker gives a pleasant rush but a wave smack in the face feels as though you might drown, so grief can offer gratitude and hope, perspective and depth, instead of only breathless sadness. But I have to tread water and wait for the wave to crest before I dive, and use my knowledge of these waves to help someone else not drown. I have to live in gratitude for the love I have, for the kids I get to mother, for the roles I get to play.

I guess what I’m saying is I should pay attention to what makes me cry, rather than just furiously wiping my eyes in embarrassment and moving on. I am slowly learning to observe, as I used to watch for opportunities to kayak out. The tides are sensible, it turns out. Waves have their own mysterious logic. The ocean swells and lifts and falls on the sand, bringing power and strength to our shores. So grief gives depth to love.

“I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.” - Little Women

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.” - C.S. Lewis

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