Grace in Wilderness

After a string of heavy days, the girls and I snuck away to the beach for our first little getaway without Lee. Just us four.

We arrived at the height of golden hour. The late February sky was drenched in varying shades of amber and rose, the ocean reflecting glory back to us. It was the most beautiful sunset I had seen in a long time and it instantly soothed my soul, like a grace-filled balm sweeping across the horizon.

We had laughter. All of the silly giggles!
Sandy toes.
Wind-tangled hair.
There was joy, pure joy, and it was real.

And then there was lunch in town the next day.

As we were being seated, the hostess smiled and asked, “Are we waiting for anyone else to join you?”

I answered softly, “No…it’s just us.” Just us four.

Out of habit, I glanced toward the door, half expecting Lee to walk in a few minutes late, scanning the room with that familiar grin on his face. Just because my mind knows better doesn’t mean that my heart has had time to catch up.

Grief is strange like that. It slips into ordinary moments. It doesn’t need drama. It only needs something as simple an empty chair.

Sitting there with my girls, menus propped open in front of us, I felt the ache King David once put into words:

“How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and day after day have sorrow in my heart?” | Psalm 13:1-2

There is something sacred about that kind of honesty. He did not rush past his pain. He named it. He asked the questions that were weighing so heavily on his weary heart.

I can relate to his level of pain. Being at that table felt like my own quiet cry:

“How long will my heart instinctively look for him?
How long will ordinary questions catch in my throat?
How long will the empty chair feel so present?”

And yet, the ancient lament above does not end in despair. “I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation.”

That truth lives here too.

I trust.
And I ache.
I believe we are held.
And I feel the weight of what is missing.

It is still just us four.

But even in our sorrow, I know that we are not alone.

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