I turned 34 on Sunday. Not a particularly noteworthy number and certainly an odd time to be celebrating a birthday (or anything at all really). Zoom parties and physically-distanced gatherings are how it’s done these days, and my sweet family and friends near and far showered me with love in all the ways they could.

I did my best to show them all my love and appreciation but it never felt like enough. I wanted to hug my mom, take a walk with my dad, bake cookies with my sister, share a glass of wine with my brother-in-law, and play with my nephew. I wanted to shower everyone with all of my love (with no virus holding us back). And I certainly didn’t want any of the sadness or loneliness I — like so many of us! — have experienced during this time to be misinterpreted as ungrateful. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone by not being 100% joyful.

So, I held it at bay — sharing just a bit of how I was feeling with James that afternoon while we lay out and read in a park. But by the end of the day, when it was just the two of us getting ready for bed and trying to settle in for our night’s rest, I crumbled. More accurately, I went under. It felt like I’d been treading water all day without even realizing it and then a wave of grief hit me, and I was too exhausted to fight it. It pulled me under, and I was lost in my own fears.

This kind of fear and grief is disorienting — it’s hard to know which way is up — much like the time my dad (before he was a dad) was windsurfing and fell off his board. He got trapped under it and was fighting to find his way out. Thank God he did. Not long after that, my mom told him she was pregnant (yep, with me!), and he either sawed his board in half and threw it away or sold it — the ending is up for debate in family lore, but that’s another story all together.

Like getting caught in the waves or stuck underneath a surfboard like my dad had, I felt trapped under the weight and the darkness of the water. I cried a truly cathartic cry — the kind of cry that comes after a breakup or losing a loved one. And in some ways, it was similar. I was grieving the loss of time with friends and family who don’t live nearby while still feeling so grateful for everyone’s love and the fact that we are all in good health (praise the Lord). And I was afraid of the uncertainty of the future.

Bless James’ heart, at first he did not know what to make of me in my mess. “I don’t understand. You were so happy earlier, and you’ve had a great day.” Yes, that was 100% true, and yet… I didn’t feel like I deserved to be celebrated. All the questions of identity that I’ve been wrestling with during this time had still been sitting there, just beneath the surface. And in this dark night of the soul, I was answering them with some pretty unhelpful narratives and untruths. Thankfully, James stayed with me in that moment. He held me as I cried, rubbed my back, and assured me that God had me. He made me feel seen, known and loved and reminded me that true love is also about receiving.

In the morning, I moved slowly and spent a long luxurious time with my Bible, my journal and my coffee. After spending time in the Word, allowing God’s truths to minister to my heart, I called my mom and my sister. I needed these women who know me so well to help affirm the truths that were hard for me to hear in my own voice at that moment. My sweet mother reminded me that I don’t bring joy to people by being joyful myself — it’s just by the very nature of us being in relationship with each other — and that I’m being humbled but not humiliated. I may be feeling low at times, yes, but my worth has not been lowered. And this distinction between how I might feel and what is actually true is critical to my mental and emotional wellbeing.

I am incredibly grateful to have people around me who help draw me back to the light. And I make a practice of choosing things that help guide me in that direction too — moving my body, getting out in nature, journaling, and speaking truth to myself. In the process, I’m cultivating a sense of love and worthiness that’s not based on my performance. At the same time, I know I need to leave space for times of sadness and grief. It’s a hard balance, but I’m comforted by the fact that it’s not all on my shoulders. God is with me in the waves, speaking peace to my soul and assuring me that I can, in fact, walk with him on the water.

While he tends to my tender soul, I am confident that he is working in me and creating life in areas that once felt dormant. He is using the darkness and the waves and the waters to garden my life and bring about beautiful new things. Throughout this week, I’ve been meditating on this prayer from the Westminster Larger Catechism, and I hope it encourages you in the deepest parts of your soul as well.

“Creator God, garden my life — turn it over, cultivate it, and make it read for gospel seeds to take root. And in quiet darkness, let the gospel do its work, slow but powerful, stirring up life in my heart, increasing joy, strengthening all your graces until shoots of new life rise and good fruit bursts forth on the branches of my life, a life beautiful for you and a blessing to others. Amen.” (WLC 75)