When I was fourteen, I stood at the edge of the depths as they threatened to swallow me whole, and I turned back. Thirty years later, I am again at the edge of the unknown, straining to see into that black abyss, finding only an open maw waiting to devour me. This time there is no turning back.
In an instant, I am back at Tanah Merah. Everything is new here in the South Pacific, so far from my Texas home. I am learning for the first time just how wide and wonderful the world is. A dugout canoe with an outboard motor dropped us off on this remote beach for the day, a land of white sand, clear water, and colonies of colorful coral. I have never seen anything like it.
Our friends took us snorkeling -- another new -- and we swam out into the turquoise water, watching the sun splinter into a thousand shafts, piercing to the floor below as it fell away. The coral rose as the sea floor sloped and still we could see it clear as day, thirty meters down. The further we swam, the thicker we felt the water teeming with life, fish on all sides and strange creatures in the corals below. Time and again we stopped to rest on the bleached skulls of the tallest formations, until no more lay ahead of us. This was the end, where the continental shelf broke off into the deep, dark ocean.
My toes creep toward the edge of the rough coral ledge as my pulse quickens and my breaths shallow. I feel like I'm going to pass out as I look ahead and darkness envelops me. I can only imagine how much light is swallowed up in these depths. What is in the darkness? How deep does it go?
Paralyzed with fear, I can no more step over the edge than I can turn back. As I refocus my gaze, the cold, empty depths fill again with warm water and the wild spectrum of fish, coral, sea cucumbers, and anemone. I see a deep blue starfish, arms smooth and strong, creep by his spindly red cousin and my senses return to me. Who knew such abundant variety existed under the surface of things?
Thirty years ago I turned from the black and returned to the safe beauty of the shore. But there's no going back now; the darkness ahead is my future, and I am blind to what lies within it. This is the cusp of an empty nest. For the first time in my life, I can't see past this year's graduation. I don't know what next year holds, and it feels as dim and debilitating as the drop off did that day. I can neither move forward nor back as my daughter prepares to witness how wide and wonderful the world is. I perch here, paralyzed, on the edge of a life unknown and unlived, unfolding in the darkness before me. I can barely breathe. And it scares me.
"Where is God when you're in this place?" my spiritual director asks, and I realize I've been holding my breath; it feels like I'm in too deep and trying not to drown.
I close my eyes and return to the threshold of my fear, feeling the coral coarse beneath me, solid and stable in the sea. I expected to see God right there, standing next to me, but I don't. Not beside, not behind, not even ahead, beckoning me into the depths, where I was afraid He would be. I stand still for a moment, waiting, listening. His presence comes and I am flooded with a river of peace as He makes Himself known.
"He is everywhere." I exhale, "He is the water."
In an instant, I am stunned by the beauty of the world and the invitation to be present where I am instead of fearful of what lies ahead. Thresholds are holy places and in this season of transition and uncertainty I am in the place where God meets me. He invites me to take off my shoes and remember that I stand on holy ground. As I do, I find that it is not the ground on which I stand that keeps me afloat, but the One who surrounds me.
I still don't know what lies in the depths, but I know Who fills them. I am held just as much in the dark unknown as I am in the place I can see now. If the shallows are filled with such a rich display of God's goodness, are not the depths likely to hold even more?
A Painted Prayer
One of the ways I have been processing this season of transition is through painting. As I stand on the threshold at the edge of all I know and look into the darkness ahead, I spent some time with art as prayer. Sitting in uncomfortable uncertainty as I probe the canvas and God’s silence for answers, I spent days and details being present to the places I seek certainty and my fears of stepping beyond them. I think I hear best when my words don’t get in the way. Far from alleviating my fears, God reminded me that I am not alone in them, not in this season or anywhere else. As it turns out, I didn’t need answers, I needed to be present to God’s ever presence in and around me.
A Step Forward
Last week we got a glimpse of the next stage for our daughter. Though it doesn’t particularly bring clarity for what lies in my future, it was delightful to have some confirmation about her path forward. I’m sure I’ll share more about that once I’ve had a bit to process. The sun is setting on this particular season, which makes me want to take in each moment, each detail, as the setting sun sets them aglow against the coming twilight. The dawn will come soon enough.
I’m standing at this precipice with you, Elizabeth. That’s how it feels to me--like I’ve reached the edge of solid ground and I don’t know where to go next, where to turn. My kids are all still at home and all still relying on me to some degree almost daily. But, I feel the creep of empty nest close by, and it, too, can strike fear and dread within me.
Thank you for expressing it as you have in this essay and also sharing how God has and is meeting you.
This is beautiful, Elizabeth. I'm feeling these feelings, too.