One definition of undertow is “a strong current flowing underwater in a different direction from the way the water on the surface is moving.” This is mostly experienced on a beach where the undertow strongly flows away or sideways in a different direction from the waves breaking on that beach.

There are so many factors regarding undertows. They are a natural phenomenon caused by various factors.  They can also be much stronger than what they appear. They can rapidly change directions and even strong swimmers can be pulled out to sea. Swimming or fighting against an undertow can exhaust a person until they lose all strength to keep fighting.

They vary in strength and the signs of them are not always obvious. The undertow can be deadly. They serve as a reminder of the immense power and unpredictability of nature.

Of course, another definition for undertow is: “an implicit quality, emotion, or influence underlying the superficial aspects of something and leaving a particular or lasting impression.”

An implicit quality underlying surface impression.

Implicit quality such as the grief experienced by a parent after their beloved child dies. No matter how much time passes, that unthinkable grief remains within us, under the surface, swirling, changing, varying in strength, inexorably trying to pull us away from ever feeling a sense of “home.” It never leaves us. But it is there. And the undertow of grief can be brought to the surface in unexpected ways at unexpected times by unexpected events.

Yesterday, I was about to walk into a grocery store. [I do most of the cooking.] As I was about to turn off the car, “This American Life,” a program on NPR (Yes, yes… I listen to NPR and not infrequently!) began to talk about an event experienced by a grieving couple suffering the loss of a child. This couple attended a comedy show in Los Angeles and sat in the front row. The warm-up act, a comedian named Adam Ray, began a bit about children and how kids are a pain in the neck! He then involved the audience and eventually addressed the couple.

The comic asked the father how many kids they had.  He said two. The comic asked their ages.  The father hesitated. Not immediately answering. The comic took this as a sign that he did not know so he started in on his wife with what he believed was good natured ribbing. He even asked which of the children they loved more. The mom then stopped down the show by saying in a clear voice, “our son is dead.”

Naturally, at that point after hearing groans from all, shock and awkwardness permeated the crowd and the performers. Where do you go from that? The comic was stammering a bit at that point and did not know how to end his set with anything resembling grace or humor. But then from somewhere in that incredible mom’s heart, she said:

“But … my dead son would have loved this!”

The crowd erupted in cheers and after that mom said his name, the performers and crowd repeatedly called out Max’s name.

This interaction can be found here:

And I found myself in the car with tears coming down my cheeks.

What incredible grace this mother had. What strength. What inspiration to turn an awkward situation into one filled with laughter and love.

But now, for the rest of the story.

Today, Sunday, I went to NPR’s website to listen to that episode again. Here is the link:

https://www.thisamericanlife.org/823/the-question-trap

I am publishing this article on the afternoon of Sunday, February 3, 2024. On NPR’s website it reports this episode, “The Question Trap,” is not being aired until 7:00 p.m. … on Sunday, February 3 ,2024!

What I listened to was not a teaser-trailer. It was not a portion of that segment. At the end of what I listened to there was no promo, “For the rest of the stories tune into Socialist Radio… [I mean NPR] Sunday night, February 3, 2024, at 7:00 p.m.”

How was I able to listen to something that deeply moved me, that moved me to tears, on NPR before the episode was even released?

Sometimes salvation or enlightenment come from the most unexpected places in the most unexpected ways.

The interaction with those parents and the strength shown by that mom came on the heels of a very significant event for me … and Morgan. When Morgan passed, her bodily remains were cremated. I have given small vials of her to family, to trusted friends to be spread where they believe she would have traveled or loved to see.

And so, parts of Morgan are in Venice, Tahiti, Key West, Cabo, and even the Texas end zone in the venerable old, Cotton Bowl in Dallas, Texas. And now … Barbados.

We were there last week. Deep sea fishing. (A shark ate one of the black fin tunas up to its head while it was on the line. The shark left me alone … professional courtesy and all that). Relaxing and recalibrating. And then, snorkeling.

Barbados beaches offer crystal clear water and shipwrecks just offshore. Wrecks which have begun to turn into coral reefs. Fish life galore. Sea turtles. A different aspect of our world. And one small, precious vial of Morgan made this journey.

As I was hovering over one of those shipwrecks, the top of the ship was as close as 10 feet to the surface. It was time.

So, I pulled her vial out, said a brief prayer and opened the stopper.

When salt water initially interacts with ashes in a confined space, the initial result looks like a thickish, white smoke. By now, tears were beginning to flow. [Try snorkeling and crying at the same time.] I gently tapped what was her temporary glass home … and she was liberated.

Many fish, probably believing it was feeding time, rapidly closed on us. Too many to count.  In various colors, shapes and sizes. Swimming around us. Perhaps a few tried to ingest her. But then.

One of those moments in life you will always remember happened. Perhaps it was the manner in which the bright sun shone in the water. Perhaps it was something else.

But as the fish swam around and through Morgan, her ashes were spread out by their activity (and perhaps the gentle undertow?) and then began to slowly drop directly over the shipwreck. Through tearful eyes, I saw, I experienced, each particle of Morgan began to shine brightly, like very small diamonds. Incredibly bright. Thousands of small diamonds slowly descending. Shining. Glittering. Iridescent.

The fish continuing to swim through her, around her, spreading her further. Then those glittering diamonds began to slowly drop onto the shipwreck. To become one with it. Her new home.

I could only shake my head hoping that would clear my eyes. But the imagery remained.  Or was it the reality? I was caught in an incredible moment of love, but also of heartache. Caught up in the divine mysteries of our very existence.

Those precious, little diamonds flowing away from me as surely they must. And becoming part of something far greater. I lingered for quite some time just watching, taking in the environment, taking in one of Morgan’s last resting places. And I grieved.  But I also loved.

And once again, I was reminded of what the eating disorder community should be fighting for. A reminder of what the eating disorder community should be united behind. A reminder of what the eating disorder community should be emphasizing above all else. 

A parents love of their child. The lives of our children.

The lives of our children.