Waves

Holding my great-niece in the waters of the beautiful Gulf of Mexico was relaxing and restorative. We were having fun chatting, laughing and riding the waves. At times we had to really jump to anticipate the arrival of the waves in perfect harmony. We were enjoying an annual tradition heading to the beach to the white sands and emerald waters.

As the waves increased in size and force, seven year old Opal said : “There may be more waves coming and we don’t know when they will get to us but it’s okay. We can handle it.” She was grinning when she announced that fact. She was calm and yet excited in a giddy way. She was looking over my shoulder toward the rest of the ocean. She did not see anything we could not outwit or thwart. But the waves were not arriving in a predictable pattern. No worries. We were an able team ready to conquer whatever came our way. She was neither frightened nor concerned. She looked me square in the eyes and said “ we’ve got this.”  Her wisdom was profound and pure.

I had imagined myself to be her protector holding her and keeping her head above water. I thought I was secretly keeping her safe from all sea creatures real and imagined. And I was protecting her as evidenced by the grip she had on my neck.  But in that moment she was reminding me of our strength together and our ability to ride out any size wave whether unexpected or not. We laughed and continued to conquer the ripples and swells.

In the past few months I have heard and read priests, authors, friends, poets, physicians , counselors, survivors and therapists refer to the arrival of grief in waves.  My mother died in March and Opal’s brilliance was revealed to me a few months later. ( She had already revealed her brilliance in countless other ways but the wave analogy landed during this trip.)  Her words were comforting in a way she could not have imagined.  Grief comes in tremendous waves at expected times and other times knocking you off your feet.  Her innocent genuine assurance that we can handle it had perfect timing. 

Simply saying, writing or thinking that my mother died hurts in ways beyond description. Grief can be a tsunami of emotion and pain or a single tear trickling down my face. One day it’s the wave that slaps you in the face and other days you get the full effect knocking you down and sending saltwater in to your eyes, up your nose and through your throat. Grief can be subtle or obvious. The same is true for love. The constant unconditional love of a great-niece always bringing a smile to your face and a reminder that we can handle whatever waves come our way. It is life-affirming. It is grounding. It is priceless.

Watching Opal interact with seagulls on that same trip solidified her Jedi-status with me. They swooped down toward her outstretched hand and she released giggly screams but she stood her ground. She was fearless. With each successful exchange , girl-to-gull, she grinned in delight. When she grew tired of that activity, she summoned me to join her in the sea.  We went out hand-in-hand to jump the waves yet again.