I stand in the symphony of beach while wind whips loose hair and wild waves pound settled sand. One son pushes his plastic dump truck, making new tracks in the sand, and the other runs down the beach, bent on reaching the fishing pier in the far distance. My husband’s pants are rolled above his ankles and he grazes the surf, jabbing left, barely missing its bubbly waters.
And I smell it, the scent of a garden, the aroma of Eden. I feel it, the shaking of earth, the trembling of ground as heaven storms down. Here, I am tucked into the thin place, the sacred intersection of heaven and earth. Here, I am standing where the door Home is cracked and light pours in, as joy slips through the sliver of its opening. In the light of heaven and in the joy of Home, the tides of eternity sweep fear and wound into its timeless waters where they float forever away.
I have often described deep grief as an intense feeling of homesickness and a desperate sense of being lost. It is wandering through the world, tiptoeing through the shards of the foundation on which you used to firmly stand. It is searching for a place of comfort, a space for reprieve as you hunt for a way to reverse the irreversible, while dodging the broken glass of the life you once knew. Walking through grief feels a lot like one long, wandering and blind search for home.
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