Shattered Ruby Glass

My heart shattered into millions of pieces this week. Spring rains had been the heaviest on record, raising the water table level. A subterranean well flooded in the night, spewing geysers of water against the fragile dam. It was built of ruby red crystal and couldn't stand against the onslaught. Rather than developing a crack that widened, it exploded into ruby shards.

I was caught in the swirling waters, slung into the river's chasm, and thought I would drown. The whitewater rapids yanked me under until the very last second, when I surfaced for a gulp of air before being shoved under again and dragged down the river. Over and over again, I'd find a breath, then submerge again. Each time I'd come up above the waves, I'd search downstream for the end of the rapids, but only after I gave up on it did I enter a calmer stretch. As I did, Jesus waded in alongside me and strapped on the lifejacket of grace. He arranged the back part to cradle my head above the water, then put on his own lifejacket and took my hand. He floated with me into a quiet eddy. I could see slivers of ruby glass settling to the bottom as they washed along.

In that safe place, I cried into Bo's shoulder and said, "I feel like somebody died. Somebody I loved a lot."

We must have floated all night, but I'm not sure because I fell asleep. I woke on the shore in dry clothes. I could tell the sun was fully up because of the golden glow all around, but whatever the view, it was obscured by a fog curtain. I could make out the basic structure of the landscape--large, mature trees and boulders--but that's all. I didn't know what to do, so I sat on a rock with a smooth place on top. I propped my chin in my hand and thought about what had happened.

Somebody had died. It was the old Kathy and the old "normal." She was familiar and comfortable, but she was gone now. I realized in the morning light that grieving over her loss was a lot like crying when your 100-year old Christian mother dies. You know she's gone to heaven and that she's whole and well, maybe for the first time in years, and that you're happy for her. But you miss the familiar. You miss her companionship, even her physical presence. So you cry.

The old Kathy was a companion I loved. She was familiar and I had grown used to having her around. I don't know the new Kathy yet. The fog hasn't lifted and I can't really find her. I'm sure I'll like her, but she'll take some getting used to.

The last thing I remember about that monrning on the shore is glancing over toward the water's edge. Littered all along the beach were pieces of shattered ruby glass.