Rocks and Water.

I think some of the scariest feelings are the subtle ones, those that creep in passively without making much noise. They’re the ones I often make space for without realizing. They ask for a drawer in the nightstand, and then take over the whole house. Sadness is a subtle-but-scary feeling for me.

I don’t think we talk about thesubtle feelings often enough, probably because they’re muddy and complicated. Bringingthem to light will take away their power, but over time these feelings becomelike friends to us, familiar and easy to connect with. They are comfortable butugly, inevitable but unintentional.

Sadness is scary to me because I’veseen how it turns from feeling to posture, from moment to habit so easily. I’vebeen trying to name my feelings lately, even the subtle and scary ones, so thatI can catch them before they become postures.

Lately sadness has been surfacing in my life, like the little rocks that wash up on the shore with cold waves. The rocks are so tiny that they’re almost inseparable from the water—yet the rocks are not the water. The rocks are not clear or refreshing or life-giving.

I’ve noticed that feelings from God usually aren’t the subtle ones. Christ’s joy comes boldly, just like the water does, rejuvenating and pure with every influx. Like waves, joy crashes unashamedly, aware of its own healing powers, imposing itself on the sand even when it's uninvited.

I want to be a person who seeks joy over sadness in every season. I want to be a person who can separate the rocks from the water in this life, and then who always chooses to embrace the water. I want to name the sadness but choose the joy, see the rocks but swim in the waves.

Let me be clear—I know that little rocks have their place and their purpose, but the water is what offers us ultimate freedom. Just like the rocks that turn into sand, sadness is something that is meant to be walked through, not dwelled in for long periods of time.

It’s never easy for me to move fromsadness to joy. The water is cold and overwhelming. It seems like the further Iget from the shoreline, the harder it is to see the place I sat in for so long,the place that feels familiar and safe. It’s both hopeful and disorienting, aparalyzing stance.

But the deeper I swim in joy, the braver I become. There will still be moments when I swallow tiny rocks in the swells of the water, or wash up on the shore when I feel weak. But I will try to refrain from laying down in the sand. I will try to stop the little rocks from imprinting to the shape of my body. I will try to keep the subtlety of sadness from becoming a posture instead of a feeling.

I’ll probably mess up because that’s what I do, because I’m messy and broken and human. I’ll probably choose rocks over water some days; but that’s why the water keeps flooding the shore. Over and over and over again, Christ keeps offering me joy. He boldly invites me to swim in healing waters and submerge myself in grace. The waves sweep onto the shore, kissing the tiny rocks, reminding me that Christ’s joy is anything but subtle and is always available.

Naming the subtle, scary feelings is awkward and uncomfortable for me. It breaks down the posture that my spine has become accustomed to. It reveals all the ways that I’ve made space for sadness, letting it build a home in me, welcoming it in like an old friend instead of seeking the presence of my eternal Father.

This idea of embracing joy isn't meant to invalidate sadness. Sadness is a relevant and necessary and complicated feeling. But I’m learning that even the ugly feelings can be part of our edifying process with God if we let them.

Joy is as abundant as sadness. The water is stronger than the sand.

words by Amy Block and photo by Sarah Mohan