Saturday, Day Seven: Rock
My family is from an island called Ikaria—rural, off the beaten path, and rustically beautiful. The landscape varies greatly, but in my father’s village of Magganiti, the coast is populated by the largest rocks I have ever seen. Some tower over the ocean, at least 10 feet above the coast, impeding the view of the sea.
One of my favorite photos of my daughter was taken during a trip to Greece in 2010. In this photo, she has climbed to the top of one of these giant rocks, and she is standing there, her arms spread wide, in awe at the view of the sea on the other side. I took the photo from the ground, so she looks especially majestic, completely happy and at peace.
I adopted my daughter as a single mom out of foster care when she was 14. Her trauma haunted her constantly—it was, her social workers told me, the most severe trauma history they had ever encountered. “You will have to be ready for anything,” one of them told me—“ready to visit her in prison, or to go to her funeral. People do not recover from trauma this severe.”
In 2010, when we took this trip, we were on the brink of what would be our worst year as mother and daughter, but I didn’t know it yet. On our way back home, we would learn that my father was dead take a detour to Ohio, leaving the college students who had come with us for a study abroad trip in Chicago. This loss would break loose grief over her lost childhood, anger over all those who had hurt her, and we would struggle for more than a year to get back on our feet.
But in this photo, what I see is a beautiful young woman, happy and open and free, ready for anything that comes her way. I see a young woman who has chosen the most solid and most vulnerable place to stand.
Right after this photo was taken, a huge wave overtook the rock. She was drenched. I watched it happen, holding my breath; anything can move my daughter from total peace to rage. But instead of getting angry, she turned toward me, a giant smile on her face—then sat down and slid down the rock on her butt, squealing, laughing.
Before that wave, the rock had seemed impossibly unshakeable. But then the water reached above its highest point and drenched its surface.
Who will roll away the rock? the women asked as they went to the tomb to anoint Jesus’ body. But it was already rolled away. His body was already gone. Nothing was as it seemed. Suddenly a story that seemed to be over wasn’t after all. At the same time, the story became less clear, harder to navigate.
Sometimes we must simply be present with the sudden changes in our lives. We can stand on solid rock until we’re overtaken by a wave, until its surface is too slick for standing. Later, we will remember what it felt like to stand there. And to get drenched. And to slide down the rock, back to solid ground. Later, we’ll be able to see and tell more of the whole story, but never all of it.
We’ll be able to say, later: that’s when suffering began. That’s when healing began.
One of my favorite photos of my daughter was taken during a trip to Greece in 2010. In this photo, she has climbed to the top of one of these giant rocks, and she is standing there, her arms spread wide, in awe at the view of the sea on the other side. I took the photo from the ground, so she looks especially majestic, completely happy and at peace.
I adopted my daughter as a single mom out of foster care when she was 14. Her trauma haunted her constantly—it was, her social workers told me, the most severe trauma history they had ever encountered. “You will have to be ready for anything,” one of them told me—“ready to visit her in prison, or to go to her funeral. People do not recover from trauma this severe.”
In 2010, when we took this trip, we were on the brink of what would be our worst year as mother and daughter, but I didn’t know it yet. On our way back home, we would learn that my father was dead take a detour to Ohio, leaving the college students who had come with us for a study abroad trip in Chicago. This loss would break loose grief over her lost childhood, anger over all those who had hurt her, and we would struggle for more than a year to get back on our feet.
But in this photo, what I see is a beautiful young woman, happy and open and free, ready for anything that comes her way. I see a young woman who has chosen the most solid and most vulnerable place to stand.
Right after this photo was taken, a huge wave overtook the rock. She was drenched. I watched it happen, holding my breath; anything can move my daughter from total peace to rage. But instead of getting angry, she turned toward me, a giant smile on her face—then sat down and slid down the rock on her butt, squealing, laughing.
Before that wave, the rock had seemed impossibly unshakeable. But then the water reached above its highest point and drenched its surface.
Who will roll away the rock? the women asked as they went to the tomb to anoint Jesus’ body. But it was already rolled away. His body was already gone. Nothing was as it seemed. Suddenly a story that seemed to be over wasn’t after all. At the same time, the story became less clear, harder to navigate.
Sometimes we must simply be present with the sudden changes in our lives. We can stand on solid rock until we’re overtaken by a wave, until its surface is too slick for standing. Later, we will remember what it felt like to stand there. And to get drenched. And to slide down the rock, back to solid ground. Later, we’ll be able to see and tell more of the whole story, but never all of it.
We’ll be able to say, later: that’s when suffering began. That’s when healing began.
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