Risking the Rough Surf

“This too shall pass”… though it was said in kindness, at the moment the statement sort of made me cringe. Those cliché phrases sometimes seem more harmful than helpful. Even with the best of intentions, they are often the last thing we would like to hear in times of trial or pain.  

Things have been difficult since my return to the states after my summer abroad. Even when I have found myself winning in the battle of faith or joyful as God worked things out perfectly, it has seemed inevitable that the victory would be short-lived.

I would sort of compare it to a few surfing experiences I’ve had. Ones where just when I’m overwhelmed by that amazing sense of assurance, standing solid on the board, the nose sinks and fly off hitting the water hard. But the kicker isn’t the fall, it’s the ragdoll motion of my body slamming the sandy floor.  It’s the tumbling and the pull of the leash on my ankle as I struggle to raise my head just above water. It’s the desperate gasps for air as wave after wave repeats the rag doll affect. The victory in those moments are just the gasps of breath (because its always a victory when you don’t drown). It is short-lived though, as saltwater floods your nose and eyes only seconds later.

That’s what these couple months have felt like. Wave after wave just pummeling me. Despite the times I’d manage to get back on my board and begin to paddle towards the safety of shore, I just kept getting knocked by the waves. Gasping for breath was like fighting for hope. Fighting for life. I started to believe the only way I’d finally reach dry land would be to wash up like a piece of drift wood.

You can see why a phrase like “this too shall pass,” even with the kindest of purposes, would send my skin crawling. I wanted to reply, "yeah and then a shark will bite my leg off." Cynical, I know.

Though the last couple of weeks I found myself finally in a reasonable place, balanced and sort of feeling like the perfect wave that would take me to shore was on the horizon. Without notice, the winds changed and a big set began crashing hard sending me spiraling ...Then, I got stung by a jelly fish (yeah, it was that bad).  I just wanted to stop fighting. I actually questioned if gasping for another breath was even worth the struggle.  I felt weak and tired and sort of just wanted to sink to the ocean floor or get swept away in the current.

And in that moment of utter lifelessness I felt someone take hold of my wrist and forcefully pull me up. Draping me across their board, I wiped the salt water from my eyes and saw something unexpected; other surfers, a lot of them.

I think in the battle to endure through my difficulties, I sometimes try to keep my pain and hardships to myself. I try to stifle it, knowing it could be worse or it’ll get better soon or God’s in control. Though those things may be true, it doesn’t minimize the painfulness of the journey. The thing about community, about people who really care about you, is that it isn’t some sort of exclusive club or a place where expectations hold value—at least not in authentic ones. That’s what I realized over the course of the last week as random people reached out and told me they were praying for me (even some people who knew nothing about what was going on in my life, just that God put me on their heart). I found myself rescued in the assurance that not only was God present with me but others were too.

Whether through an email, text, conversation, or hug, strangers and friends alike seemed to be paddling with me to shore. It was as if they’d gotten to the beach and saw that the waves sucked but decided to paddle out anyway, because they didn’t want me to be out in the mess alone.

I think I forget that sometimes. I forget that I don’t have to feel like it’s just me and God in this life. It’s okay for me to invite others into my pain. To accept that they care enough to want to fight with me. That they love me enough to want to see me endure and conquer. That they will lay in the sand next to me when the warmth of the sun and the assurance of dry land finally comes. Sometimes God shows up in our most desperate of moments in the form of other people. He rescues and loves us through them.

Surfing is risky. It is dangerous, sometimes painful, or even life-threatening. Yet, talk to a surfer and they’d tell you it’s all worth it to catch even one epic wave. Even after a “worst day”, you can find a surfer, board in hand, walking towards the ocean the very next. That’s the thing about risk, it only scares off those who fear it.

My friends aren’t afraid to get out in the water with me. They aren’t afraid of the tumbling surf. You aren’t alone either. If you are, then you may need to wipe the salt water from your eyes and look around you.  The risk isn’t just in the surf; it’s in trusting other people. It’s believing that when you can’t fight anymore, an arm will reach from above to pull you up. It’s trusting someone not leave you stranded in the middle of the ocean but to paddle with you to shore. It’s allowing them to care for your jellyfish sting or scraped knee. It’s not letting the pain you just endured numb you into believing everyone else will do the same.

Vulnerability can sometimes feel weak. The ragdoll affect certainly didn’t make me feel like Kelly Slater. In my risk to endure the surf, I found myself in this tired place of need. A need for help. For comfort. For others to remind me what strength looks like. Remind me of what I know to be true. To watch the approaching set and stay by my side. The cliché phrase is certainly true--no specific time table included-- it shall pass. However, when endurance wears thin and the shore grows further and further in distance, I’m glad those words aren’t my only source of hope. Instead, I was embraced by God times 20 as this community of loving people surrounded me. Willing to ride out  the rough surf until it does finally pass.

I’d like to say thank you to specific people who have very recently and intentionally taken the time to reach out and love me well. You encouraged me, spoke truth into my life, gave me grace in my grief, prayed with or for me, asked about my heart, listened, hugged me, and intentionally took an interest in fighting with me to endure, THANK YOU. Ashley Kennard, Diana Humphries, Jena Foster, My parents, Caleb Thompson, the senior small group, Steph Broderick, Megan Steiner, Kellie Mejia, Nathan Seta, my community group, Dr Gray, Dr Sims, Dr Smith, Willy Kendust, Antioch 21 church, and the Beckett family.