Save me, God, for the waters have reached my neck.
I have sunk into the mire of the deep, where there is no foothold.
I have gone down to the watery depths; the flood overwhelms me.
I am weary with crying out; my throat is parched.
-Psalm 69:1-4, NAB
I love baths.
I have had two hot tubs over the course of my adult life. The last one was right off my deck and lasted nearly 20 years. I loved sitting out there on cold, starry nights, soaking in the healing waters and stargazing. My next home will at least have a jetted bathtub and maybe a skylight over it.
These days I enjoy a weekly soak in a hot lavender Epsom salts bath. My muscles–which get a lot of workout time–just melt into the water, providing me with a beautiful surrender into complete relaxation.
A month or so ago, my then sleep-deprived, heartbroken, and very angry self ran a bath and plopped my tired bones into the steaming hot water. I released myself to the liquid that surrounded me, but in a few seconds my tears started falling.
And the tear dam burst, as streaming tears grew into heaving sobs.
When I was grief coaching, I’d share with clients how our grief is layered. We may start crying over a recent loss, only to find ourselves moving further into the tears because of a longer, embedded grief.
And that’s what happened. My tears began over a recent loss but pivoted to sobs over a husband that was swallowed by the sea nearly 33 years ago. As I gasped for breath, I found myself crying out to God:
“Lord, I know stranger things have happened, but can you please bring Russ back and let him enjoy his family?”
Bawling and begging over a long lost husband who guarded my heart and had my back.
And once the sobbing tapered and with only a few tears falling, I felt I heard my late husband say, “You deserved and deserve better. Own your worth. Get out of that water, and get into life. You’re no longer stuck.”
I think, too, he was likely echoing what far too many have said: “You have so much going for you. This is more of someone else’s loss.”
I climbed out of the tub, a little faster than when I went in. The water had become cool, and I had been through a baptism of sorts.
Feet on floor. Check. Wrapped in a towel. Check. One foot in front of the other. Check.
Forward.
Check.
Amy Walton believes in the power of a hot bath and a good, long cry, if needed. She also is more fully aware than ever of her own worth and is walking forward in that renewed discovery. Connect with her at amywaltoncoaching@gmail.com.