As published in the 2025 Calla Press Spring Literary Journal: Living in Wonder

Moving my dinner around my plate, I let out a soft sigh and met the gaze of my husband sitting across the table. His eyes reflected the same exhaustion and sadness I knew people saw when they looked at my face. I smiled a half-convincing “see, we’re getting through this” smile — a smile he returned with the same look of helpless defeat. 

It had only been a couple of weeks since we’d lost our baby during a heartbreaking miscarriage — our second loss in less than six months. And while the arms of our family and church community held us tight, and God’s faithful presence remained undeniably steadfast, we found ourselves in a state of paralyzing numbness, unsure of how to move forward.

Breaking his gaze, my husband’s eyes suddenly darted to something moving past the bay window beside my chair.

“Is that a cat?” he pointed to a small dark figure slinking through the bushes.

We were used to seeing skunks, raccoons, and even crows the size of cats in our yard, but never before had we seen a cat on our property, aside from the two that lived in our home. And with the exception of our next-door neighbor, we didn’t exactly live in close quarters with any neighboring houses.

Upon closer examination through the glass, the meandering animal in our yard was, indeed, a small cat— a thin, hungry-looking tabby who seemed to have just appeared out of the woods behind our house. My husband and I looked at each other and, without speaking a single word,  agreed to do all we could to take care of this cat until we could find his owner.

It was, after all, March in Vermont. With temperatures below freezing, we knew food, water, and shelter were scarce, especially for a little animal who most likely hadn’t grown up in the surrounding woods.

We set out a small dish of cat food and a bowl of water under the roof of our open-faced woodshed. By the next morning, the trail camera confirmed our little friend had managed to find the food and water, dining for over half an hour and sleeping all through the night in the cozy bed we’d made for him. It became clear he was more than just hungry and tired — he was sick and needed help.

After naming the cat Felix, caring for him quickly consumed our thoughts and energy in heart-captivating ways over the next couple of days. When we weren’t making improvements to better insulate his little shelter or filling his dish with food, his sweet face glimmered in the forefront of our minds. 

Getting to love Felix was the gentle balm that soothed our aching hearts. It united us and lit lanterns of joy, illuminating the darkness that had clouded our days. 

When our neighbor mentioned he’d seen the same cat drinking out of a dirty puddle in his driveway a couple of weeks prior, it only confirmed our suspicions that Felix had been out on his own for a long time — too long. It had been a few days since his arrival and we still hadn’t found his owner — we knew it was time to take him to the vet and get him the medical attention he so clearly needed.

We found Felix sleeping peacefully in his bed, hugging the little mouse toy we’d given him.

“Hi sweet boy,” I spoke calmly, not wanting to startle him.

“We’re going to get you the help you need to be healthy and strong,” my husband said gently. After telling Felix how much we loved him, we noticed his ears hadn’t been moving to the sound of our voices as cat ears typically do.

“I don’t think he’s breathing,” my husband whispered under his breath.

My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach.

No, no — this can’t be happening, I thought to myself. We were going to be gardening buddies out in the yard all summer. He’d hear the slam of the screen door and come running to join us for an afternoon of weeding the garden and harvesting vegetables. He’d climb the pear tree and we’d smile up at his sweet face amongst the pear blossoms. He’d be healthy and strong — he’d curl up in our laps and doze off in the warmth of the sun.

He wasn’t supposed to leave us now — not before we even got to hold him.

Not him too…

“I’m so sorry!” I cried, choking on the despair caught in my throat.

Why did he have to be taken away?

Why do we have to say goodbye?

At that moment, time stopped. In a slow-motion daze, we buried our sweet friend and said goodbye. Standing there in the middle of the woods, covered in dirt and snow, we let our hearts be shattered into thousands of little pieces. In our confusion, pain, anger, and helplessness, we clung to each other and cried until we could barely breathe.

Collapsing into our Father’s arms, we finally, finally grieved.

For Felix. For our first little baby. For our second baby.

The ones we never got to hold.

The memories we never got to make.
The little lives we loved with all the love in our hearts.

It was as if the floodgates of grief opened at that very moment.

And God was there to hold us with a supernatural strength I’ll never ever forget.

*****

A friend once compared losing someone you love to standing ankle-deep in the ever-moving waves of the sea with your back to the water.  Waves of grief come and go, rise and fall. You know there will be waves rolling in, but with your back to the sea, you don’t know when — or how forceful they will be. In a split moment, stronger waves may supersede the lapping waters and shake your balance — you may nearly lose your footing. Other times, you may hardly feel the waves around your feet, numb to the cold, having stood in the waters of grief for so long. 

And still, without warning, a giant squall may rise out of the sea, crashing into shore and knocking you off your feet. Engulfed in waves, you may find yourself completely wrecked, unsure how to get back up again.

That’s where I’d found myself amid the grief of the past year — thrashing in the waves that felt too heavy to handle. I called out in honest cries, and he heard me. God pulled me close and held me tight. In the days and weeks following Felix’s loss, I remember experiencing this feeling of being gently rocked whenever I would come to God in prayer. In his arms, I was safe to feel the sorrow and hurt I’d numbed myself to push away. In humbled awe, I watched as God brought transformative healing into my life, carrying me out of utter brokenness into full restoration.

It’s since become clear to me that when we’re standing in the waves with our backs to the sea, God is standing there facing us — feet in the sand, arms stretched out ready to catch and hold us. He’s ready to bring restorative healing to the darkest pockets of our lives. It’s a wonder that can only be explained by the unfailing grace and love so great that even amid sorrow and loss, there can also be deep peace that surpasses all human understanding.

*****

My husband and I often talk about how God knew Felix only had a few more days to live when he brought him into our lives. Why had he done that — letting us love so hard, only to lose again? 

Had he known the joy it would bring us to love amid our numbness and grief — how tangibly caring for Felix would bring healing to our hearts? 

Had God known that the physical act of burying Felix and saying goodbye would be the open door we so desperately needed to fully enter into grieving the babies we lost?

I believe he did. 

I believe God cares about every detail of our lives.

And I believe he’s there on the beach with us, arms open wide.

*****

Published in the 2025 Calla Press Spring Literary Journal: Living in Wonder.

Calla Press granted permission to feature my piece “The Wonder of Peace Amid Waves” here on my blog.