Learning to Ride the Rising and Falling Waves of Grief
“Darling, you feel heavy because you are too full of truth.
Open your mouth more.
Let the truth exist somewhere other than inside your body.”
— Della Hicks-Wilson
I feel “ick” today.
Heavy.
Maybe a bit sad, or tired — I am not sure which. Or hungry. Those three tend to blend together.
My kids, Jayden and Brooklyn are fine; not sleeping, but fine. As fine as two kids with life-limiting conditions can be. In fact, most days, I fear they are doing a better job of living than me. My husband Justin says I am too hard on myself. Perhaps. My daughter Ellie is great, too. Still asking a bunch of questions, like many 4-year-olds do, and playing baby. Specifically, “a baby named Ellie who talks with her eyes. And crawls. And walks. And laughs. And giggles. And sleeps.”
Every day.
Ellie has this book, “In My Heart: A Book of Feelings,” which I feel you must read to your children. In fact, everyone should read it. It talks about how some days, our hearts can feel as heavy as an elephant. Yeah, that’s how I feel — heavy and a bit jacked up.
And I am not exactly sure why. It could be the weather changing, the silence of the house now that the kids are back in school, the lack of sleep, or feeling like I am constantly failing at life. I am not sure — but today is a heavy day.
Yesterday wasn’t. Yesterday was a light day. A busy, productive, house-full-of-people day. A day for laughing. It seems the busier I am, the less heavy I feel. Not that heavy isn’t there; it always is. I just don’t feel it as much.
Anyway, yesterday, I felt good.
Productive. Present. Engaged. Today, two coffees and an expresso in, I am tired. It comes like waves, doesn’t it?
Grief, anxiety, doubt and sadness.
Connection, bravery, resolve and productivity.
Wavering seems normal — the rhythm of life, I suppose. I like that negative feelings come and go, but I’d love for the good ones to be a bit more consistent. The moment after I sense a burst of warrior spirit, or fierce confidence, or “go get ‘em” attitude, it just vanishes. I imagine it’s a lot like surfing. I fight to get out far enough past the break, to the place I can even catch a wave. I wait. Wait for the rise, the invitation. I feel it swell. I participate. I ride the wave until it disappears, until I am sucked under and tossed about, finally finding myself right back where I started: the shore. The place I tried so hard to leave. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stay on top of the wave. I can’t stay light. But no one does.
That seems to be the art of surfing. The rise, the ride and the repeat. I feel that is the art of life. And we hope, at the end of the day, we’ve either moved a bit more down the shore, or at least survived the sea. We hope we can look at our life and say, “It was good.” I waver between feeling strong and feeling weak daily. The moment I believe “I got this,” it’s gone — fear, doubt and panic take its place. It feels like walking in circles. I try so hard to get to a place of peace, acceptance, normalcy — only to realize all I have done is worn deeper the path back to the start. But what is left behind after years of our wandering? A path we’ve walked so many times before — full of memories and reminders. A path for others to travel.
I have heard grief isn’t linear, and I suppose anticipating the grief of losing my children isn’t either. So although we have been here time and time again, it is never exactly the same. Certain things feel eerily familiar, others feel heavy and new. When we keep surfing, keep walking, though, something beautiful can happen. We can get stronger. We can build muscle memory. We can leave bread crumbs. That’s why we keep showing up, because we have learned truth exists in the tension of light and heavy. In the rhythm of the rise and the fall. That is the secret. The sweet spot, the hardest spot, in the center of the tension and the rhythm. It may be exactly where we need to be.
It gets harder.
It gets easier.
It’s both.
That’s the art of life.
Image via Thinkstock.
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Stefanie Boyce is a national speaker, spiritual director, and author of two Bible studies designed to help participants create space to be with God, and have deep conversations about what they are learning. She is best known for her perspective when it comes to finding beauty in difficult circumstances. In 2009, Stefanie and her husband got the news no parent wants to hear. Not one, but two of their children were diagnosed with a rare, genetic disorder, Sanfilippo Syndrome. Children progress until about the age of three, then slowly lose the ability to walk, talk, feed themselves, and eventually pass away. There is no treatment. No cure. Three years later, knowing the risks associated with having another child, they welcomed, their daughter,Elliotte and began a new part of the journey navigating typical and terminal, simultaneously. November 2017, Jayden (11), went home to be with the Lord and just eight months later, their daughter, Brooklyn (9), did too. Committed to thriving, not just surviving, the Boyce’s continue to navigate difficult new normals, always trusting God to reveal the beauty in the midst of such devastation. In Stefanie’s honest, real life approach that people have come to love, audiences have found encouragement, inspiration, and renewed hope. She speaks on a number of topics offering a redemptive perspective on suffering. Through creative teaching, Stefanie uses everyday items and stories to highlight God’s truth. In addition to speaking around the country, her work has been featured on The Mighty, other guest blogs, and Don’t Do This (https://www.amazon.com/Dont-Do-This-Learning-Screw-Ups/dp/1942145241) She has been a guest on Melissa Radke’s Podcast, Ordinary People, Ordinary Things, and is currently working on her first book. Stefanie enjoys connecting with people and holding space for people to grow ever closer to Jesus whether that is one on one through private spiritual direction, writing, teaching or training small groups, or keynoting an event. She is a wife, forever a mother of three, and dreams of a day she can have a little farmhouse with an old truck to call her own.
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