What Will You do with My Tears?

Robert and I collapsed onto the floor of a Mexican airport when we realized that A.J. was still in distress, nearly 2,000 miles away. The medical interventions that had helped before weren’t working this time. We collapsed into each other when we realized he was gone. I saw my own pain mirrored in Robert’s eyes, and I ached for my mom and for the others who would stand watch until we could get home.

Peace enfolded us like a blanket, well-worn but not frayed, and I knew that we were no more alone than on the day Olivia died. God was with us as He always has been and always will be. Still, my mind threatened to splinter at the thought that two of my children left this earth while I was away from home and away from them. Two years had passed. Two things were different than before. Robert and I were together, and I saw clearly—for better or worse—what the road ahead would hold.

When you see something painful coming, you flinch. When the pain seems endless, there is the temptation to grow hard-hearted and thick-skinned. The flinching is a protective instinct, I know. Even numbness is a merciful part of the grieving process. But tragedies get more devastating when the numbness grows cold enough to become callous. 

I never want to grow callous. So, as we prayed–there on that cold tile floor–Robert thanked God for AJ’s life, and I asked God to keep our hearts soft.

Father, please don’t allow us to become jaded.

On foreign soil yet familiar territory, we stood and took our first step forward.

Nearly every step since has prompted the same thought:

I can’t believe I’m doing this again.

Looking into the eyes of two little girls to tell them their sibling is in Heaven. Making funeral arrangements. Buying one last little outfit.

I can’t believe I’m doing this again.

I feel sick to my stomach, guilty that I am even capable of doing it all again. I should be curled into a fetal position, crushed under the weight of this sorrow. The loss of two children is too much for anyone to bear. The fact that I am still functioning must mean something is wrong with me. That I haven’t loved deeply enough.

And then I remember how helpless A.J. was and how many times I’ve heard him called strong. It’s a paradoxical idea—that strength becomes so evident in a 5-year-old little boy who cannot run, form words, feed himself, or even play. 

How can this child be the one to offer his mama comfort in the wake of Olivia’s death? It was A.J.’s presence that I craved most in those early days and weeks and months. Though shadowed with the same diagnosis that claimed his sister’s life, A.J. carried a light that helped me see the way forward again. Oh, how I love my Little Man.

There is so much of our journey that doesn’t make sense to the natural mind. I can’t explain, even to myself, how we physically kept on going. How a sleep-deprived father continued to wake to the sound of alarms, year after year. How my own small frame managed to safely lift A.J. into the car and out, again and again. How A.J. continued to exude such peace through so much suffering.

It is in these contradictions that I recognize the truth. A.J. was not strong, and neither am I.

“​​But God has selected [for His purpose] the foolish things of the world to shame the wise [revealing their ignorance], and God has selected [for His purpose] the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong [revealing their frailty].”–I Corinthians 1:27 (AMP)

In the footnotes of the NLT paraphrase of this verse, we find that “God chose those who are low born … and used them to bring to nothing what the world considers important.” I can testify to this. Being AJ’s mama is a privilege that has taught me a lesson I hope I never forget. Nothing matters more than God’s presence and his purpose.

In another place, the Bible tells us that cracked vessels are especially suited to display God’s light:

“We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.”–2 Corinthians 4:7 (NLT)

I remember now, and the guilt recedes. A.J. was not strong, and neither am I. “This is the secret: Christ lives in [me]” (Colossians 1:27).

Christ lives in me and in you, if you’ve entrusted Him with your life. This is one of the reasons why St. Patrick could say:

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ where I lie, Christ where I sit, Christ where I arise,
Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of every one who speaks to me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.
Salvation is of the Lord.
Salvation is of the Christ.
May your salvation, Lord, be ever with us.

When I look for Jesus, I can sense Him everywhere. I feel Him in the comfort of my husband’s arms, and those of my brother and uncle. I hear Him each time my mom insists that I eat and every time a knock on the door announces kindness in the form of a meal. I feel His presence in the whisper of my aunt’s wise words and as I read my own prayer, transcribed and sent this morning by a friend, though it was spoken months ago:

“Father, I thank You that You are truth. You are steady. You are immovable. Jesus, Your Word says that You are the way, the truth, and the life … Your Word says that when our hearts our overwhelmed, we can cry out to you. That you will lead us to the rock higher than I.”

I look down at the silver cross on my wrist, a precious gift that reminds me who and whose I am. It’s in the memory of A.J.’s gaze, and in every call, message, and act of compassion. They spell out the truth. Though I am not strong at all, Jesus is. He is a firm and unwavering foundation.

I had struggled to cry and to pray, but both flow freely now, and I ask:

What will You do with my tears? 

I need to know that this pain means something, and He answers before my next breath. The words are not audible, but they are indelibly inscribed on my soul.

If you withhold them, they will be like the Dead Sea, shrinking your life and causing sinkholes for others to fall into. But if you offer them to Me, I will use your tears to water your life and the lives of others.

In Jesus’ name, let it be so. 

“You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.”–Psalm 56:8 (NLT)

“Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy.”–Psalm 126:5 (NIV)

“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”–Revelation 21:4 (NIV)