July 17 was the closest I've ever (knowingly) been to death.
As someone raised in the church, I've thought a lot about the mortality of my body. I never shied away from the idea of death, and in a sense-- sometimes healthy, sometimes not-- I even found the idea a comfort. The removal of pain and suffering and uncertainty and hormones and sickness and worrying about food and social anxiety. Knowing my soul will one day be free of the weight of surviving feels like a relief.
And if this was it, I was ready.
My life didn't flash before my eyes. I didn't think about my regrets or my choices or my dreams I wouldn't get to fulfil. I just thought about my body.
At this moment of urgent need, I felt thankful.
Thankful that my uterus tried and my heart beat and my lungs breathed and my kidneys and liver and stomach and brain all knew what to do from the beginning. Now, sitting in the hospital, bleeding internally, I knew my body again kept me alive.
That night, I could have dismissed my pain. I'd already wasted money at the hospital a couple days before where my pain was written off because it was quiet. Because it was calm. Because I didn't advocate firmly enough.
Because I let them ignore the results staring out at them from the screen.
There's a weight to things when you know they are true. That night, I knew if I went to sleep off the pain and silence the fear, I wouldn't wake up the next morning. And for that knowing, I was proud of my body.
When you know everything is going to change, life looks different. Thinking feels different. Better or worse, it doesn't matter, but there's an awareness that it will never be this moment again. You'll never be this version of you again.
Grief tugs at our anchor to reality, to our foundation.
We are alive every day. As obvious as that sounds, how often do we wake up, complete our routine, and go back to sleep without letting ourselves feel or think, because it's too scary or overwhelming? We numb ourselves with normalcy and to-do lists and "this really cool new thing I'm trying."
The waves rise, and we feel that anchor tug against us. We can no longer drift idly on the tides, careful only not to disturb the surface. Whether the thing we lose is given up or taken, if it's sudden or slow, when we grieve, that pretense is disturbed. Now we're fighting every second against the waves just to be.
A lot of people stay here the rest of their lives. Fighting. Always fighting. Fighting to make it calm, fighting to put it back to normal, fighting to ignore it by focusing on other things. Fighting against the real problem.
I've found myself here the last few months. Fighting to go back to normal, to focus on other things.
But the grief isn't mine alone.
It's my husband's. It's everyone's who has lost a child, who has lost a loved one, who has lost a dream or a job or a friendship or an opportunity or a freedom or an ability or a love that never was.
We're all anchored.
The question is, to what?
Anchored to reality, sure. But what truth holds you fast? What keeps you from drifting off or capsizing or being broken up by the waves?
What truth steadies you in the uncertainty and the fear and the pain and the loneliness and the darkness and the anxiety? Is there a truth tethering you to hope and peace and confidence?
I will tell you mine.
In that room, while I sat alone in the hospital bed, knowing my ruptured fallopian tube was still pumping blood into my stomach while the OR techs "took their time," knowing my husband was waiting without update in the other room, knowing what this surgery meant, knowing that tomorrow isn't promised, that 20 minutes from now isn't promised... the truth that anchored me is the same that has carried me through every storm, that transcends this world, anchored in He Who created it.
The stories about God walking Israel through the Red Sea, about Jesus calming the storm, about the Holy Spirit appearing as a flame in new believers... maybe they feel far away from you. Maybe it all sounds metaphorical. Maybe some of it is.
But I can tell you that His comfort, His peace, His wisdom, His love, they are ever-present.
I didn't feel scared that day. Not of losing my grasp on this life. Because I know this isn't the best there is. This world and everything you can do here can be amazing. God didn't create a world of nothing, but of life and life abundant.
Still, it isn't the best there is.
I wanted to stay, and I was ready to go. I knew there was so much more ahead. So much more above. So much more to this moment than random chance.
And so my soul was at peace.