The Layers

There are few things in this world more healing than sitting beside the sea.

The sun is beginning its slow descent, casting a golden glow across the waves.  The temperature is perfect. I am here, barefoot, watching that sunset stretch its colors across the sky like a watercolor painting in motion. I wish I could stay in this moment forever. Surely heaven will hold many scenes like this, only more vivid, more permanent, more whole.

One of my goals this trip was simple: see dolphins. Real ones. Not from a dock or a distant pier, but up close. So I booked an excursion called “Swim with Wild Dolphins.” And to be honest, I didn’t know what to think. These aren’t trained dolphins performing on cue, they’re wild, and sightings aren’t guaranteed. The best you can usually hope for is a fleeting glimpse as they pass you by.

Our captain was a former sports coach, a man with a whistle, a stern tone and a no-nonsense attitude. He barked out rules like we were in preseason drills, but it became clear he knew what he was doing. He told us that if we followed his instructions, we might get lucky. He added, “If they turn around and interact with you… well, that’s a lucky day.”

And wouldn’t you know it.  Luck showed up for us.

We headed into the Gulf, where the water shimmered in emerald hues and the shoreline was powdered with white sand. Before long, we spotted them. Not one, not two, but dozens of dolphins. While most tours hope for a single leap or two, we experienced something altogether different. The dolphins were playful, really playful. They weren’t just swimming near us; they were interacting.

Initially, I was nervous. Wild animals. Open water. I’m not exactly at ease swimming next to something large, fast, and alive (especially when my brain starts whispering “sharks” every other second). But the second I dipped my face into the water and watched those dolphins circle me, laughing, leaping, spinning, I forgot the fear entirely.

At one point, five of them surrounded us, weaving through us like overgrown toddlers in a game of tag. They slapped their tails, made playful clicks, and nudged each other with what could only be described as dolphin mischief. I laughed, really laughed. The kind that bubbles up from somewhere deep and reminds you what joy feels like.

Even our rule-loving captain was impressed. He said it was one of the most interactive groups he’d ever seen.

Every time I climbed back onto the boat, dripping and exhilarated, I couldn’t help but look back at the water with a full heart. What kind of God cares this much? What kind of Father orchestrates a sea ballet for a mom and her kids on vacation?

The answer, of course, is ours. The kind who delights in delighting us. The kind who knows that sometimes what we need most is not a miracle of provision or protection, but a miracle of joy.

And here’s how I know it was more than coincidence: we went back just a few days later. Same place. Same boat. Same time of day. And this time, not a single dolphin. They were gone, maybe out to sea, maybe hunting, maybe just doing whatever it is dolphins do when they’re not putting on a show. But I wasn’t disappointed. 

God had chosen that day. That moment. He knew how much joy it would bring me, how much sheer delight I would carry from interacting with those incredible creatures. And He knew I needed it.

This isn’t my first time in this part of Florida. I’ve rented the same house before. Same beaches. Same sleepy little town where time slows down and sand clings to your ankles long after you’ve left the shore. And every time I come, I find myself thinking, “It probably won’t be as magical as last time.” But every time, it is. And somehow, it’s even better.

There’s something sacred about the simplicity here. Drinking coffee on the back deck with my mom, watching the birds glide over the water. Sunrises that nudge you awake, and sunsets that seem to tuck you in. It's slow. It's quiet. And slowly but surely, it’s becoming my place. The place I go to breathe again.

I tell people I come here for a break, but the truth is, I come here to be put back together.

Five years ago, my world cracked wide open. A fire. Then my son’s cancer came back. Then divorce, layered over grief, over fear, over exhaustion. When so much hits at once, the mind doesn’t just heal because the calendar says it’s time.

But this place in Florida, it helps. There’s something about the rhythm of the waves and the hush of the wind that makes space for God to speak. And He does.

Now don’t get me wrong, I know you don’t need a beach house to find healing. I know God can meet you in a crowded waiting room or a prison cell. Just ask Paul and he would tell you healing isn’t tied to scenery. It’s tied to the Savior.

But still, God knows me. He knows that here, surrounded by salt air and sunshine, my heart is soft soil. He meets me in the middle of dolphin dives and quiet mornings. And He keeps healing me, layer by layer, moment by moment.

Healing is Layered

Psalm 147:3 “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”

I used to think healing meant moving on. Getting over it. Reaching a point where the pain no longer followed me around like a shadow. But I know better now.

Healing, as it turns out, is layered. It doesn’t arrive all at once like a lightning bolt.  It comes slowly, gently, sometimes painfully. It’s one layer at a time. And often, the deeper the wound, the more delicate the healing.

When I first came to this little beach town, I didn’t know how much I still needed to process. I thought I just needed a break. But with every visit, I find myself peeling back another layer of grief, or fear, or weariness I didn’t know I still carried. It’s not always obvious. Sometimes it shows up as restlessness. Sometimes as tears I can’t quite explain. Sometimes as a deep breath that finally feels like it reaches my soul.

Five years ago, so much unraveled at once. At the time, I didn’t know what to do except survive. But surviving isn’t the same as healing. Survival builds walls. Healing gently takes them down, one brick at a time, and lets light in again.

This place, this simple, quiet, salt-air place, has been the backdrop for God’s work in me. Not loud or dramatic. Just slow and sure. A little more peace this year. A little more clarity. A little more freedom from the weight I didn’t realize I was still carrying.

And I’m learning not to rush it.

God doesn’t. He’s not standing over me with a stopwatch. He’s sitting beside me with tenderness and time. He’s not asking me to “be okay.” He’s just asking me to keep coming to Him. To keep letting Him into the places I’ve been afraid to revisit.

Because healing isn’t about forgetting what happened, it’s about allowing Him to redeem it. And that kind of work… well, it takes time. Holy, intentional, beautiful time.

Just like the body doesn’t bounce back after surgery, the soul doesn’t bounce back from trauma. When you’ve been cut deep, you don’t leap to your feet the next morning. You ache. You rest. You wait. The swelling has to go down. The tissue has to knit itself together. Even when the scar forms, it stays tender for a while. And the deeper the wound, the longer the healing takes.

So why do we expect our souls to be any different?

Why do we tell ourselves to move on, hurry up, get over it, as if grief is something we can schedule or rush?

Jesus never rushed the wounded. He didn’t shame the broken for not bouncing back. He knelt beside them. He touched the untouchable. He gave time, dignity, and space for healing.

And He does the same with us.

So if you're not “there” yet (whatever “there” means), if you're still aching, still healing, still rebuilding, know this: you’re not behind. You're in process. You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Because real healing takes time.

And you're not doing it alone. 

Redemption, Not Erasure

Healing isn’t about forgetting what happened.
It’s about letting Jesus redeem what happened.

Sometimes we think the goal of healing is amnesia, to erase the pain, rewrite the past, pretend it didn’t happen. But that’s not the way Jesus works. He doesn’t erase our stories. He rewrites them. He takes the ashes and makes beauty, not by pretending the ashes weren’t real, but by creating something more beautiful because they were.

I think about Mary Magdalene.

We don’t know her full story, what led her to the place where seven demons held her in their grip. But we know enough to understand this: she wasn’t just hurting. She was tormented. Her mind, her body, her very being, were hijacked. She had no control. No peace. No escape. She likely said and did things no one would ever want remembered. She knew evil in a way that most of us will never comprehend.

She wasn't just a woman with a troubled past, she was a woman drowning in darkness.

And then, He came.

Jesus didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He didn’t require a backstory or an apology. He walked right into her chaos, right into the very place others had abandoned. He spoke, and with the authority of heaven in His voice, the darkness lost its grip. The demons that had ruled her life fled at His word.

And for the first time in who knows how long, she was free.

Can you imagine the silence after? Her mind no longer spinning. Her limbs no longer trembling. Her heart no longer hijacked by a force she couldn’t name. Just stillness. Just breath. Just presence.

Jesus didn’t just cleanse her. He restored her. He gave her back her dignity. Her identity. Her future.

And that’s the part that undoes me: she didn’t just get delivered. She got chosen.

Of all the followers, of all the people Jesus could have revealed Himself to first after rising from the dead, He chose her. Mary. The one who had been the most broken. The one who had known torment. The one who had tasted evil and now stood face-to-face with Glory.

She was the first to hear her name spoken from resurrected lips: “Mary.”

Not Peter.
Not John.
Mary.

“Go and tell them… I’m alive.”

Isn’t that just like God?

The more shattered the past, the more radiant the redemption. The more complete the unraveling, the more extravagant the restoration. Mary Magdalene was living proof that the places evil has touched most deeply are often the very places where God pours out His most lavish grace.

That’s redemption.

Not erasure. Not denial. Redemption. The kind only Jesus can do. The kind that doesn’t require forgetting our worst chapters but allows them to become the setup for our most powerful ones.

I’ll never fully understand why certain things were allowed in my life. I won’t pretend the fire, the diagnosis, or the heartbreak didn’t leave marks. They did. But the longer I walk with Him, the more I see: He’s not trying to delete those chapters. He’s weaving them into a redemptive arc I never could’ve written on my own.

And maybe, just maybe, He’ll let me tell someone else He’s alive because of it.