003 - Undertow

July 2004

Anyone who lives near a deep river or the ocean knows what an undertow is. It’s been years since I really thought about them—but lately, I can’t stop thinking about them.

For the landlocked: an undertow is a current that runs beneath the surface of the water. Sometimes it flows in a different direction than what you see on top. It might move sideways, diagonally, or even downward. Some are gentle. Others cluster together and collide violently below the surface—while above, everything looks calm. Undertows can be deceptive. And deadly.

It turns out, people can have undertows too.

I guess I should’ve known that. Maybe everyone else already does. But this realization—this knowing—has helped me recognize that I have some of my own. Grief has carved them out of me.

Maybe that’s progress. Maybe the fact that I can see them now means I’ve come a long way. But maybe not. In the early days after Dad died, my grief was on the surface—loud, raw, visible. But as time passed, it sank beneath the skin. It started to run deeper—quieter—but no less powerful. Sometimes even I can’t tell where those currents are anymore, or what direction they’re pulling me in. But I feel them. They tug at my thoughts. They steer my moods. They drag me sideways when I want to move forward. And sometimes, they pull me down—fast—into a darkness so deep that no one sees me vanish. Not even me.

Sometimes I panic—gasping for breath, finding none.Other times, I find a strange kind of serenity down there.It’s dark. But it’s warm.And that’s what makes it dangerous.

It’s inviting.

I’ve read that some men never truly recover from the death of their fathers. I believe that now. In those first few days, I assumed I’d bounce back eventually. Like a cold: feel bad for a while, then get back to normal. But I’m not so sure anymore.

A dear friend asks me regularly, “How’s your heart today?”Seven months later, the answer is still the same: “Broken.”

I’ve never liked the idea that “unless you’ve been through what I’ve been through, you can’t understand.” I don’t think that’s entirely fair—or true. But I do now recognize that there’s a difference between knowing and knowing. Between being acquainted with something and being intimate with it. I used to think I understood grief. And sadness. And depression.

But I didn’t. Not really.

They were acquaintances, not companions.

Writing this makes me appreciate something Scripture tells us about Jesus—that He was a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief. That changes things. That deepens the bond. He knows what this feels like—not academically, but personally. He’s been in these waters too. And He’s faced the temptation to give up. Just like I have. Maybe just like you have.

Back in April, I wrote that I needed to take Jesus’ words more seriously—to not just read them, but study them, understand them, apply them. I said I wanted to learn how He responded to people in their pain, so that I could learn how to help others. That’s still true. And I see more clearly how I was too quick to speak when I should’ve listened. If I’d done that—really listened—I might have helped more. I might have hurt less.

In May, I wrote that I was ready to go on with life. That’s still true too—I am ready to try. But I didn’t know then how hard that would be.

To go back to the metaphor: it’s like I walked through the fire of grief… and now I’m standing at the edge of a river I’ve never seen before. The current is unfamiliar. The waters are deep. And I’m carrying a burden that doesn’t float.

I don’t know how to swim in this. But I have to. I can’t stay here. I can’t go back. The only way forward is through.

And it’s dark. And it’s frightening. And it’s lonely.

If you’ve been reading these letters, you know I like quotes. I’ll steal one from anywhere if it fits. And right now, the one that fits best comes from Finding Nemo. Dory the fish, innocent and wide-eyed, sings as she swims into the deepest part of the ocean:

She sings it not because she’s fearless, but because she doesn’t know what lies ahead. That kind of simple trust is beautiful. I want that kind of trust in Jesus. Not blind faith—but trusting enough to keep moving, even when I can’t see.

So I’ll smile—if only for a moment—and jump in.