The Tide Will Always Recede

Last month I lost one of my closest friends. And I’m dealing.

It’s like the scene in Titanic, where the ship is sinking and the band continues to play.

Everything around you continues to move, but you’re struggling to remember how to put one foot in front of the other and each time you think you’ve got it, something happens to make you lose your footing. For me, that comes whenever I revert back to what used to be normal — sending a random text to make brunch plans, sending a funny joke, popping up on her because I was in the neighborhood or calling to simply just check-in as friends do.

It comes every time I remember the last time I saw her or the last conversation we had, just one day before she apparently left this world. I read more deeply into our last text exchange, wondering if I missed something important. I think more intently about our last conversation and the laughs we shared, not knowing that it’d be the last time I’d hear her infamous squeal.

I know all of the comforting phrases, all of the Bible verses that are intended to make us feel better, yet none of that really seems to work as it should. Perhaps it’s too early in the process to really know.

I’m hopeful, though. Hopeful that my friend is in a place that’s much better than Earth; where peace and happiness is in abundance; where she can sing the best of our favorite songs to the highest of octaves and laugh as loudly as she likes to without the judgement of strangers. I’m hopeful that, though it will be much different for me, there’s more laughter and more good times on the other side of this.

Selfishly, I just want my friend back.

Selfishly, I want this all to have been a bad dream.

At the same time, I want to learn how to keep going.

I had the honor of making the program for her funeral and I put this Bible verse in the program in hopes of comforting all those who would be missing her:

The Lord’s unfailing love and mercy still continue; Fresh as the morning, as sure as the sunrise. — Lamentations 3:22–23

Truth is, I needed those words to comfort me.

There’s two things I love — the sun and the ocean. I’m grateful for both because they remind me of the privilege of life. If you’re blessed to see a sunset, it means you’ve survived another day; and if you’re blessed to see the sun rise, it means you have an opportunity to start anew. It’s a reminder of His mercy.

The ocean, for me, has always served as a place to be still, to leave my thoughts. I’m often clamoring for the opportunity to get to a beach, not to enjoy fun in the sand, but to sit with the water and marvel at its strength. The ocean knows when to rage and knows when to be calm. It’s affected by storms, often raising its tide in response. It ebbs and flows as we should in life. It’s a reminder of His power.

I’ve read a lot of things about grief and how to handle it, how to get through it and the reoccurring advice has been to be patient in the process. There will be days where I’m okay and days when I’m not. There will be times when it seems like this grief will never get better and times where I can see a picture of her and not break down. I suppose the key really is to just wait; and in that waiting, I’ll find peace.

In the meantime, I’m learning to compartmentalize my thoughts when I need to, just to get me through the day. I appreciate the times when my friend finds a way to break through those moments, though, to remind me that the sun will rise and I’ll be fine, eventually.