A LETTER TO A GRIEVING WOMAN

Dear _____,

You don’t know me, but I’ve been praying for you and your family since the day you held your baby in your arms and have continued to pray even though you cannot hold your baby in your arms today.

My friend told me you were headed to the ocean to escape and grieve, and she thought maybe I may have some comforting words for you since I too have escaped to the edges of the earth to grieve.

I have not lost a child, so I don’t want you to think I know how you feel or that there are any words I can say to take your pain away. Words fail in the presence of the greatest grief we can know in this life. And I know that the hundreds of “I’m so sorry’s” or “I’m praying for you’s” or “sending you love’s” feel like nothing right now. So, instead, here’s a story about a trip to the ocean: 

I went to the ocean so life could stand still for a moment and the waves could drown out the noise of my thoughts. 

I went to the ocean to catch my breath and to feel wind and life whip through my hair and across my face because I felt numb. 

I went to the ocean to face the abyss of dark and ominous waters with seemingly no end in sight wondering how in the world I could ever be on the other side of this when prayers and miracles seemed to have failed. 

I went to the ocean for answers from God and to let my endless tears of disappointment and sadness add to their depths. 

I went to the ocean to be held by the warm sun because there was no one else to hold me and my arms couldn’t reach far enough around. 

I went to the ocean because I didn’t know where else to go. It just seemed like a place that was better than anywhere else, especially better than the deafening silence of empty rooms. 

Maybe you are going for one or all of these reasons too. Maybe more. And I’m glad you are. I couldn’t tell you why I was going at the time, but God met me there in it all.

There were no answers to why it all happened, but there was healing just like God always has done with water whether it be a well, a sea, a cup, a murky lake, or a bucket to wash feet. 

I left the ocean knowing:

That this isn’t the end of the story. 

That this wasn’t for nothing. 

That this will be redeemed. 

That this won’t always feel like this. 

That I am not alone.

That God knows and understands. 

That’s the best way I can sum it up. 

It has been four years since that first trip, and I continually go back to that shore with the same sunsets and the same views like a ritual of remembrance. And ever since I went back the first time, it has felt like I am standing on the other side of the Red Sea astonished as to how I got to the other side. It’s spectacular and miraculous and a place I now dream of living one day.

So, my prayer for you is that the depths of the ocean meet the depth of your pain. And that the depths of your pain meet the depths of God’s peace and compassion. And that the depths of peace are displayed in the sun, the wind, and the water. And that you leave with enough hope in your pockets to sustain you until your next visit. 🌊

Peace be with you, 

Alex