Lessons from the Barren Sea: For the Woman Who Wonders if She Will Ever Recover from Pregnancy Loss

Not too long ago a lifelong dream came true when I boarded the most exclusive and sought-after sailboat, the S.S. Pregnant, for a nine-month cruise. I had been looking at the brochures for so long, and stepping onto the shiny deck was the culmination of all of my hopes and dreams. Everyone on the boat with me is just as thrilled at the opportunity of a lifetime. All of the passengers are explosive with joy, the entire craft a scene of balloons, confetti, party hats, and dancing. I am blissfully happy. 

The boat sets off on a perfectly clear day, and smooth sailing is predicted for the duration of our trip. There are so many activities on board: shopping for all things baby, a name choosing station, a life of anticipated memories scrapbook table, and a baby bump photo booth. The whole boat is a flurry of excited preparations. 

As the shore shrinks into the distance, we gain a certain distinguished distinction among our peers. Once we are surrounded by deep blue water, the sailors perform a routine jibe ho. Forgetting to call out before maneuvering, the boom swings across the boat quite unexpectedly. The swinging sail hits me full in the chest and plummets me overboard. The unanticipated force knocks the breath out of me. I hit the water in shock and confusion. Before I can comprehend what has happened, I am nearly drowning in the swirling waters of the Barren Sea. 

I call out to the boat, but the wind picks up the sails and drives it quickly away. 

For a long time I am so shocked and numb at my present situation that I can do nothing more than the dead man’s float, allowing my body’s natural buoyancy to keep me from slipping under the dark waters. I wonder if it is even worth trying to stay afloat at all. 

After a while, I decide to tread water. I pick up my head and stare in dismay at the waters stretching endlessly in every direction around me. I am fairly sure that I have no nope of survival. I float on my back for a while, staring up at the sky, hurling bitter questions at God. “How could you let this happen? Do hear me? Do you even care?”

At some point, I see a small aircraft fly over. I look up in hope, feebly waving for them to rescue me. Instead, I see a banner waving behind it with a message of encouragement printed in clear letters. The message is clear and straightforward, “You will not be wet forever.”

Not be wet? At this point I can’t imagine being out of the water, much less dry. 

Another plane flies by with a new message trailing out behind it, “You will be grateful you took this swim.”

This time I get angry. I didn’t choose to take a ‘swim.’ This isn’t a vacation. This is a curse, and I will never be grateful that I got the opportunity to struggle with death in these perilous waters. 

By and by I come across others in the water, also struggling to stay afloat. Expecting to find solace in company, we flock together in the water, each treading in our own depths. 

As soon as we congregate, I spot a fin not too far away, and fear overtakes me. Two more fins join it, and soon the sharks are circling, drawn by our small group of vulnerable prey. I easily recognize the species lurking in the water: the enormous Bitterness Shark, the small but deadly Comparison Shark, and the Doubt and Despair Shark, which can track its prey for miles before devouring them.

“At least you had a chance to ride on the S.S. Pregnant for a while. I’ve been splashing in the Barren Sea forever,” one person says. Before she can finish the words, the Bitterness Shark lunges for her and she frantically swims away with the fin following closely. 

“At least you have only fallen in the water once,” another says, “I’ve been knocked off of that cursed S.S. Pregnant over and over again.” As she spits the words out, the Comparison Shark surfaces menacingly, and she retreats as quickly as she can. 

I wonder if I am doomed to struggle in this sea forever as I see the fin of the Doubt and Despair Shark slowly circling towards me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a life preserver floating in the water. It is obviously from a ship, but I am disappointed to see that it is no longer attached. In my deranged thinking from hours of stress and dehydration, I am reluctant to grab hold of it, even in the presence of the shark. How can I trust that it will hold me after what the boat it came from did to me? I decide to take my chances and hook one arm wearily over the flotation device. I see the name of its vessel printed in beautiful script, and am surprised that it is not from my former ship. “S.S. Word.” 

Filled with hope for the first time, I lift the ring over my head, pull my arms through, and rest my full weight on the life preserver. I hadn’t realized how exhausted I was from my struggle until this moment. Peace washes over me. Rest floods my weary limbs. The threatening fin turns around and retreats back into the dark depths. I weep uncontrollable tears of relief. 

The rest of the journey I cannot explain. I sleep off and on. I’m not sure how long I float. I wonder why I am at peace even though death must be my certain end. I’m not sure how long this continues, but it seems like a lifetime. 

Eventually, I see some land in the distance. I immediately recognize the shoreline as the Island of Surrender. This is not a popular vacation spot. In fact, the island is presently uninhabited due to its dense population of pesky Submission Crabs that tend to infiltrate even the most secure resorts. Decade of different hotels in various stages of completion lie abandoned by those who refused to coexist with the destructive little creatures. 

Just as I am about to head towards the beach, I see the S.S. Pregnant rounding the point of the island. I struggle over which direction to go. I desperately want to get back on the boat. I can hear the festivities of their celebration from where I float. For some inexplicable reason, I feel drawn to the island at the same time. I turn to one and the other, back and forth, battling with myself for far too long, before turning to the shore and letting the waves wash me in. The boat fades into the horizon and I wonder if I will ever lay eyes on her beautiful sails again. 

Lurching forward on one crashing wave at a time, I finally reach the sand. The feel of solid ground under my feet is so foreign after my treading and drifting that I collapse under the weight of gravity’s pull on my body. I rest my face on the rough sand. I am by no means comfortable, but I am overjoyed to be back on land.

After some time, I stand up, wobbly on my sea legs, and walk around the island, looking for some food and water. It is difficult to walk with the weight of my wet clothes clinging to my limbs. The water slowly seeps out onto the sand as I struggle forward. I find a fresh spring and drink from the Living Water. Sprouting near it is a vine with all kinds of fruit, and I ravenously indulge in the fruit of the Spirit. On a rock I find a fresh loaf of Daily Bread, and it is just enough to fill the gaping hole in my spirit. 

Next, I seek out some shelter. I awkwardly step around the Submission Crabs that cover the island. I attempt several temporary shelters, but each time I begin to construct one, the crabs push over the sticks, steal away the palm branches, and push rocks into my cleared space. I finally abandon all plans. Finding a cave with an opening in the shape of two wings, I lay down to sleep in its shadow. 

I wake up curiously warm and comforted, only to realize that the crabs have bunched all around me in my sleep, creating an unexpectedly cozy bed of sorts. I rest in the midst of the warm huddle of Submission in the Shadow of His Wings. Suddenly, I realize that my clothes have dried. 

I sigh deeply. What a wonderful feeling to be dry! When lost at sea, I thought that I would never be dry again! I remember the plane and its message that I had seen from the water. I quickly get up and begin a search of the island. The small aircraft could not have flown far, and must have come from this island.

After a short search, I find the abandoned airstrip and the small aircraft. No one is in sight, but there is a worn manual on the seat of the plane. I spend the next several months poring over the book. I learn how to fly the plane. I learn how to fix the engine. I also learn the history of the island and I begin to see God’s story is weaved into its pages. I find answers to the questions I had hurled at Him from the waters.

After a few rocky test flights on the island, I am ready to venture out over the water to seek escape on a nearby inhabited island. Over the next few weeks, I fly out as far as I can in every direction, but discover no way back to the place I came from on the other side of the sea.

On my way back from my final attempt, I see a person splashing in the water below. My heart breaks for them as I remember my own struggle. Back on the island, I cannot stop thinking about the person I saw in the water. What could I do to help them? I can’t land the plane in the water or hover like a helicopter to pick them up. Unfortunately, they will have to figure out the way to the island on their own. 

Suddenly, I have an idea. I find some old advertising banners in the back of the plane, unroll the giant canvases, and paint a series of message in big bold letters:

“Head to the Island of Surrender.”

“Take the life preserver from the S.S. Word.”

And, of course, “You won’t be wet forever.”

After that I fly the plane everyday, unfurling different messages of hope and encouragement for the many who are lost at sea near the island. I rejoice on the day that the first survivor stumbles on to the sand with exhausted relief. I show her the spring, the fruit vine, the bread, and the cave. Once her clothes are dry and she regains her strength, she joins me in making new messages to fly over the dark waters. 

More and more survivors stumble onto our shores, and we have a big celebration every time a new one reaches the beach. The parties are not unlike the ones that I remember from the S.S. Pregnant so long ago. However, there seems to be a deeper authenticity, almost a somber rejoicing, in the celebrations that we hold. I suppose all reunion celebrations have to take into account the fact that there was first a separation, which makes the party all the more worthwhile.

I do not know if the S.S. Pregnant will ever make a stop on this island, or if I will ever board her deck again, but I am not lonely here. While co-living with the crabs changes many of my plans, it is a wonderful adventure. I do know that my soul is deeply satisfied here as I rest in the shadow of the wings. I have a new-found purpose in sending messages out to the people struggling in the waters offshore. I have a beautiful community of hope and redemption with the survivors gathered here. I find a new layer of profound wholeness each time I grasp the hand of an individual collapsing onto the sand in relief. 

My ability to point them to this island because of my own experience has made me grateful that I was knocked off of that sailboat all of those years ago. 

Quite suddenly, I remember the second plane’s message, 

“You will be grateful you took this swim.”

I had scorned it so bitterly at the time, but today, I smile, because it’s true.