come to the water

Last night, with Molly, I stood in the surf for everyone who couldn't be there. All the shared burdens I've written about, all the heaviness, I carried to the edge of the land.
Sometimes that's what we have to depend on - allowing someone else to hear the waves that could wash us for us. This is a major function of friendship - to pray for you when you can't find the words, or even the God.
So I stood there in what for you, were silent breakers, and sent up moans into the milky dark expanse, and I watched the gentle waves bring in hope and comfort, grain by grain, and watched care and anxiety churn in the riptide, desperately begging to be washed away.
We have castles of worry, fear and pain, that it seems the tide should just wash away like today's footprints at low tide. Why won't the tide rise this high?
In the dark, looking out into nothingness that I know is anything but, I feel small, and know that my scars, your scars, are merely a toe dragged in the sand in terms of an existence that we cannot possibly fathom. Larger than the "over there" that can't be reached while standing on the shoreline. And I know that one wave smooths the scarred edges, another fills the trench and another leaves but an indentation, until morning comes, the tide's gone out and the sun dries the sand and leaves it warm and soft again.
Yes, our scars reach beyond the tide line, it seems. A part of us that we've not yet surrendered to the sea. I know this. I haven't figured out how to allow the tide to take it. I pray for a tidal surge, the granddaddy of all waves to wash ashore and take even what has not been offered it, and to make no apologies as it breaks and flows back out.
We carry buckets of water to our craggy, sharp, canyon scars. We try to soften the edges, maybe even fill the indentation. But buckets won't do it. We need to surrender to the sea to heal our toe-lines. Let it smooth, shape and beautify. Everyone loves the beauty of the beach.