How Do You Keep a Wave Upon the Sand?
- karenmrubinstein
- 3 hours ago
- 4 min read
I recover loudly.I wear it on my sweatshirts, my tees, my totes. Recover Loudly. Waiting for a table at brunch, buying dish detergent at Acme, walking the dog — someone either leans in with curiosity or quietly says, “I’ve got twelve years myself.” Sometimes I get: “You? An alcoholic? No way.”
That’s exactly the point. Opening doors. Giving back. Service.
My faith? That I keep quiet. Not hidden — just private. I’ve always believed that living your religion is more powerful than announcing it. I write about it softly, from the side. Never front and center.
This week broke that open.
The call
My husband Barry is the Correspondent Editor for NHL.com — he hires and oversees the reporters and stringers who cover the league across the U.S. and Canada. Last Saturday, he called me. I picked up expecting his usual bright voice.
Instead: heavy. Worn. “Something horrible happened.”
My mind raced through everyone I love. And then he told me.
Jessi Pierce. One of his correspondents. One of only three women covering the league. His very first hire at the NHL — ten years ago.
I knew who she was immediately. Barry and I share a home office. I hear his side of every call. Most of them are quick and matter-of-fact — who to cover, what to ask, what time. Dry. But when he talked with Jessi, something was different. There was more explaining — not of what to do, but a kind of gentle reining in of what not to do. Not in a bad way. More like trying to manage a happy puppy who wants to jump on the sofa, play with every toy, chase the cat, and run outside all within five seconds.
She was bright. Bubbly. Impossibly energized. Passionate about the Minnesota Wild and the sport she covered and the stories only she could find.
Barry hated to rein her in. He used to say it was like the line from The Sound of Music:
How do you keep a wave upon the sand?
She was a force.
Last Saturday morning, Jessi Pierce, 37 years old, was killed in a house fire, along with her three children — Hudson, eight; Cayden, six; Avery, four — and their family dog.
What you do with white water
I rushed home when Barry called. That weekend I let him take the lead on what we’d do — a walk in nature with me and Frisco, dinner at his favorite restaurant with an IPA and a rack of ribs, rest, reflection.
And mass. Twice.
Once with our own minor tornado of creative energy — Father Francisco at Our Lady of Peace (OLP), our parish near our home. And then Monday night at a special Lenten speaker series with Archbishop Cardinal Joseph Tobin — who looked at Barry as I introduced them and told him what had happened. Cardinal Tobin — a huge hockey fan — had heard about Jessi and spoke with him about the beauty of the sport and the part of Minnesota where Jessi lived and worked and raised her children.
Father Francisco listened with tears and made me promise to call his office the next day — to have the names entered for a mass and special prayers.
I keep my faith quiet. Until it’s the only thing loud enough to hold the room.
The river
I often describe my Higher Power as a River of Life. It takes me places I’d never dream of. It gives me strength as it pulls me along. It was the missing piece that found me in sobriety and has guided me ever since.
Even a river hits white water.
This is white water.
Here’s what I know about white water: you don’t fight it. You don’t think your way through it. You surrender to the current and trust that it knows where it’s going — even when you can’t see around the bend.
That’s not weakness. That’s the hardest kind of strength there is.
Barry left this morning for Minnesota — for the wake, as the representative of NHL.com and as a man who knew Jessi for ten years and watched her grow from his first hire into someone irreplaceable. He will stand in a room full of grief and hold it with whatever he has.
Before he left, we went to the Living Stations of the Cross at OLP together. A quiet refuge. Something to carry into what comes next.
Palm Sunday
Today is Palm Sunday — the day the crowd cheered for Christ before turning on Him. The holiest stretch of the year for my church. A week that begins with triumph and ends at a tomb — and then, if you believe, breaks open into something that should be impossible.
I believe.
Not loudly. Not on my sleeve. But the way you believe something when it’s the only thing standing between you and the dark.
Jessi Pierce was a wave. You cannot keep a wave upon the sand. But the water — the water keeps moving. Keeps returning. Keeps finding shore.
That’s what I know about loss. And faith. And the kind of resilience that doesn’t bounce you back to where you were — but carries you forward to somewhere you couldn’t have imagined.
One small action at a time.
Especially when the river is running fast.
Karen
💜🙏
My book The RETURN Way™ : Finally, an answer to “Why do I act this way?” and a way to change. launches April 6th. It’s the map I built for white water.
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