Erosion

I heard the word erosion the other day and, as I often do with words, picked it up and held it to the light.

Erosion.

I think of it, usually, as bad news.

We hear about coastal erosion and disappearing wetlands.

The erosion of public trust in institutions.

The erosion of civility.

Of faith. 

The word itself is heavy, carrying the weight of loss and regret.

It makes us worry.

Something valuable is being worn away.

Something that once stood firm no longer does.

But the longer I sat with the word, the more I realized erosion can’t be defined as good or bad. 

Erosion is simply change brought about by persistence.

Water against rock.

Wind against stone.

Time against certainty.

And then I found myself wondering whether the better question isn’t whether erosion is good or bad.

The better question is:

What in my life should be protected from erosion, and what in my life should be surrendered to it?

Now, that question will keep a woman pacing.

Certainly, some things deserve protection.

Faith.

Trust.

Integrity.

Marriages, friendships, families, and communities all require tending.

But some losses happen gradually, not suddenly.

A neglected prayer life.

A broken promise.

A conversation that never happens.

Small compromises.

Tiny fractures.

Like a Gulf Coast shoreline disappearing grain by grain,

we often don’t notice the damage until a great deal has already been lost.

So, some things must be guarded fiercely.

But not everything.

Fear, for instance.

I can think of fears that once ruled my life and barely whisper to me now.

Not because I conquered them in a single brave moment,

but because life slowly wore them down.

Disappointment taught me that I could survive.

Heartbreak revealed my resilience.

None of my many (many) failures ended my story.

My edges softened.

Thankfully.

And then there is pride.

Age has a way of teaching us that we are not nearly as smart, strong, independent,

or in control as we once imagined.

That realization feels like loss at first.

Later, it feels like freedom.

There is a certain peace that comes from no longer needing to have all the answers.

No longer needing to win every argument.

No longer needing to be understood.

No longer needing to be right.

Some of the roughest edges of our souls are worn smooth by years of living, loving, failing, forgiving, and beginning again.

Which brings me to a smooth river stone.

Its beauty comes from what is missing.

The sharp edges are gone.

The roughness has been worn away.

The stone became beautiful not because something was added to it,

but because something was removed.

Water touched it thousands of times until only what belonged remained.

I think God works that way with us, or at least, with me.

I spent so much of my life asking Him to add things.

More certainty.

More answers.

More success.

More clarity. 

Meanwhile, He was quietly removing things.

Fear.

Pride.

Resentment.

Self-sufficiency.

The illusion that I am in control.

That last one is a big one for me.

Little by little, year by year, He wears away what was never meant to remain.

I’m grateful.

Even when it hurts a bit.

Perhaps that is why I keep returning to the word.

Not because erosion is always good.

Not because erosion is always bad.

But because wisdom may lie in:

Knowing what to protect.

Knowing what to release.

Knowing what should stand firm against the waves.

And accepting the erosion of all that was never meant to remain.