Tethered

Three words have been playing in my mind lately: rhythm, purpose, and tethered.

A few weeks ago, a friend shared the word tethered with me. She told me that, no matter how strong the waves of grief become, I am tethered to God.

I can admit that those words bring me comfort.

The thought that I am connected to something strong enough to hold me, even when I don’t feel strong enough to hold myself, is comforting. The idea that the waves can pull and crash and threaten to take me under, but that there is something keeping me from being lost completely.

But I can also admit something else.

Right now, my relationship with God is complicated.

As I have shared before, I am still working through my feelings. I am still trying to understand my faith in the midst of losing Ryan. There are moments when I feel angry. Moments when I feel hurt. And if I am being completely honest, moments when I feel let down.

I am not sure what it means to be tethered to God when I am still trying to understand how I feel about Him right now.

But perhaps that is the very thing about being tethered.

A tether doesn’t disappear simply because you pull against it.

It doesn’t break because you have questions.

It doesn’t let go because you are angry.

And maybe, for now, I don’t need to have everything figured out. Maybe I can hold on to the comfort of knowing that even while I wrestle with my faith, ask difficult questions, and try to make sense of feelings that don’t always make sense, I am still tethered.

Grief has a rhythm. At least, I am beginning to understand that it does.

I haven’t learned that rhythm yet. I don’t know when the waves will come or how long they will last. I am still caught off guard by their force. But I am beginning to recognize an ebb and flow to this grief, and perhaps, over time, I will come to understand that rhythm better.

For now, the waves still feel unpredictable.

Some days they pull me under. Some days I can catch my breath. And sometimes I am simply trying to stay afloat.

But through every wave, I can remember that I am tethered.

The other word that continues to find its way into my thoughts is purpose.

And I want to be clear about what I mean when I say that. I don’t believe Ryan’s death happened for a purpose. I don’t believe there is a reason that could ever make losing him acceptable.

His life had purpose.

His presence had purpose.

He mattered simply because he was Ryan and because he was loved.

But Eric and I are beginning to find purpose in the connections that have come from this journey we never wanted to take.

We have found ourselves talking with people who are walking a similar path. People who understand the waves without needing them explained. People who know what it feels like to wake up and have to remember all over again. People who understand that sometimes simply getting through a day requires more strength than anyone else can see.

There is something meaningful about being able to sit with someone in their pain and say, I understand.

Not because we have the answers. Not because we can make their pain disappear. But because we are walking through it, too.

Maybe that is where these three words come together for me.

I am beginning to recognize that grief has a rhythm, even though I haven’t learned it yet.

Eric and I are finding purpose, not in Ryan’s death, but in the connections we are making and the people we are able to walk alongside because of our love for him.

And through every wave, I am tethered.

Even when I have questions.

Even when I am angry.

Even when I feel let down.

Even when I don’t understand.

Perhaps being tethered doesn’t mean I have to feel certain or have unwavering faith right now.

Maybe it simply means that, even when I am struggling against the current, I am not alone.

And for now, maybe that is enough.