Lionheart Grief Coaching

I took my two girls to the beach a couple of weeks ago, anticipating a week of fun in the sand and sea. Thankfully, that hope was rewarded. What I did not expect, but got anyway, was a lesson in surrender.

My youngest daughter is just 4 years old, but from her first experience at the beach to present day, she detests the feel of wet sand on her feet, particularly when accompanied by shoes. If that was not enough, the relentlessness of the tides puts this sweet girl into a fighting state, karate chopping and kicking each wave as if the ocean could be subdued by her rage. A part of me is proud of the amount of fight in her, because I know it will serve her well as she grows up into an adulthood filled with unexpected challenges. Another part aches for all that energy being used in vain.

At one point on that first day, she looked at me with hopeful eyes and asked, “When will the waves stop?” I had to respond, “Never, it’s the ocean.” Her answer? “I like the pool better.” Don’t we all?

To watch this unfold as a mother is to smile wryly, identify with, and hurt for my little girl. The ocean is not what she wished it would be even though it is exactly as it is. In that moment, I was struck by how often I am disappointed with life, wishing it could be different, easier. How often do we try to fight against an inevitable current, believing if we can just fight hard enough against it, it can be overcome?

We romanticize these efforts in Western culture, because like my 4 year old, we still believe our grit, determination, and inherent goodness can prevent sorrows and disappointments. And when we cannot avoid these losses, we are told by everyone around us, including ourselves, we just didn’t fight hard enough. It would be ludicrous for me to tell my 4 year old the waves kept coming because she didn’t karate chop the previous wave hard enough and yet this is what we do to ourselves and each other on a daily basis. It is no wonder we are persistently anxious and depressed.

I can only surmise the divine feels much like a mother, smiling wryly and hurting for the valiant, but ultimately misguided efforts we undertake to achieve peace.

I watched my little one kick and punch waves for a solid 10 minutes, waiting to see if she would change course on her own, but after minute 7, it was clear this would go on for as long as we stayed at the beach if I did not intervene. Perseverance, I’ve noticed, is a double-edged sword: it can be just as much a detriment as it can be a positive trait when wielded incorrectly.

So, I picked up my oldest daughter’s boogie board and waded into the shin deep water. I showed my youngest how to connect herself to the board, first with the strap around her wrist and then how to press her body on the board just at the right moment so she could ride the waves she had only wanted to battle a moment before.

That first ride into shore resulted in a palpable energy shift from rage to excitement, from a sense of powerlessness and frustration to joy and wonder. That energy stayed with her for the rest of the trip. She still hates the feel of wet sand in her shoes, but who can say they don’t? One lesson at a time.

Surrendering to the nature of our lives, which are filled with discomfort and unpleasant circumstances, gives us the ability to enjoy the ride, even when it is rough and uncertain. While we cannot prevent the waves of difficulty, we can at least remove the additional suffering of believing we can.