Seven Swans a Swimming

 Seven Swans a Swimming

Moving Through the Deep Waters

      Swans are typically very noble and majestic creatures.  If you were to visit a pond they would be the first birds that catch your eye.  They are much larger then most other water fowl and their pure white feathers draw attention.  Swans seem to gracefully swim on the water.  It's almost like a ballet for birds.  They glide on the surface, but underneath, their feet are paddling hard and constantly.  You and I don't notice or appreciate how hard they are working in order to keep pressing forward.  All we see is what's above water, but below the water is a whole different story.

      That sounds a lot like grief.  From the outside, people may think you’re “doing fine."  I've had countless people tell me "Matt, you're doing so well" or "you are such a strong man."  What they don't see is the invisible battle in my heart and soul.  Tiff passed away one year ago and God blessed me with my chapter two, but I'm still struggling with loneliness and depression from time to time, especially during the holiday season and when the dark, cold winter days seems to have a tight grip.  Under the surface, what people can't see, is my heart working hard—sometimes just to stay afloat.  Grief feels like a millstone or an anchor tethered to you.

      But today's lesson is simple and full of hope:  God gives you supernatural support for the waters you’re swimming through.  Grieving people need that support because grief feels like deep water.  Scripture acknowledges that loss feels like drowning: “When you go through deep waters, I will be with you (Isaiah 43:2)."  God doesn’t say you might go through deep waters—He says when.  Sadly grief is a condition that will probably effect each human heart.  Death is unavoidable.  Those that we love will cross the 'bar' before we do.  The waters of grief feel deep and murky.  They are isolating and scary.  If you’re grieving this Christmas, the waters may feel overwhelming.  Times like when memories hit without warning (almost like an ambush), or when loneliness catches you at night because your bed feels bigger and emptier, or when social gatherings feel exhausting, or when holidays look different than they should.

      We feel the need to fake it until we make it during the Christmas season, but it’s okay to admit it’s deep.  It's okay to tell others that this particular season is almost unbearable.  You’re not weak for feeling the weight.  You’re human, and you’re hurting.  But God promises you won’t go through the deep alone.  Take comfort in that my friend.  Another One steps into the fire with you.  He is your helper and He will never leave you nor abandon you when the waters are rising.

      One of the lessons that I've learned from watching swans is that they don't fight the water, they simply move with it.  Swans have an elegant grace, not because the water is calm, but because they’ve learned how to move with it.  Grief often becomes harder when we try to fight or outrun it.  Fighting grief is like throwing punches at the wind.  Sometimes the most healing thing you can do is let yourself feel, let the emotions come to the surface, to stop surpressing them and pretending that they aren't there.  Or to admit that they are valid.  Let the tears come, let the waves rise and fall, give yourself permission to rest, let this Christmas season be a little different, and let grief be what it is.  You don’t have to keep it all together.  You don’t have to pretend.  God gives grace for the waters you’re in—not the waters you wish you were in.

      Swans look peaceful, but beneath the water, they are constantly moving.  The problem is that grief can make you feel like you’re barely making it.  That is so frustrating for the person grieving because they see the rest of the world is rotating, going forward, but you feel struck.  You feel motionless.  To be honest sometimes it feels like you are in reverse.  Grief makes you feel like you’re tired, overwhelmed, or fragile.  Grief takes away the energy to even press forward sometimes.  Now, to others, it might look like you’re handling things well, but inside you’re paddling like crazy.  But God understands the effort you’re expending just to wake up, keep functioning, hold conversations, to pay attention, show up to church, face hard memories, eat certain meals, perform certain tasks, decorate for Christmas, and to just plain carry your grief.  He sees the hidden struggle beneath your surface.  And He supplies hidden strength beneath your suffering.

      Grief often feels stagnant, like you’re stuck in the same emotional place.  But you are moving.  Healing is happening, even if it’s slow, even if it’s unseen, even if it's not noticed or felt.  Swans don’t rush—they glide.  You don’t have to sprint through grief.  Your grief journey is a lifelong marathon, not a sprint.  You don’t have to hurry your heart.  You only need to keep moving—one quiet, faithful inch at a time.  It almost reminds me of 'No Man's Land" during WW I.  Men weren't fighting for miles, yards, or feet.  They were simply fighting for inches, and what's what we do as grieving people.  We fight for inches, small battles.  All the while knowing that God moves with you.  He gives you the exact amount of grace and strength that you need each day.

Reflection Questions:

      - What areas of your life do you  

    find the water's becoming deeper?
 

      - In what areas do you see yourself making forward progress?

A Prayer for the Deep Waters

Lord, the waters feel deep around me right now.  Sometimes grief feels like it might pull me under,but You promise to be with me in every wave.  Give me the grace I need today—wisdom, strength, peace, whatever my heart can’t produce on its own.  Carry me the way the water carries the swan.  Help me keep moving, even if today my movement is slow and quiet.

Amen.