Last May, while on vacation in Hawaii, Michael and I went snorkeling. We stripped down to swimsuits, and with tightly fastened goggles, a snorkel in our mouths and flipper-clad feet we jumped from the dock of the yacht into the clear, cold, cerulean blue, ocean water. Enveloped by subtle, salt water waves we peered into the world of coral and the sea life it supported. Holding hands and slightly kicking flippers we made our way across the water, taking in the shimmering, glowing schools of fish and other life that swam alongside us. Thrilled by a new creature entering into view, we pointed or squeezed a hand, sharing a moment and appreciating the mystery of creation.
We were gliding through the water together, up and down with the waves, slowly, quietly, moving as the water wanted. And since being home, this moment is one that I keep coming back to. Even though it was a very different experience from our daily life together, there are some really big similarities. It's hard to describe, but when we were horizontal, shifting with the water, holding hands, the tension of experiencing it together, but slightly delayed, was so much like real life. Feeling similar things, but at different moments—feeling joy at seeing our children behave sweetly, feeling sadness at loss, and contentment because we know we're ok. Not knowing what's coming next, but trusting it, because at least, we are together.