Loss, Ache, and Tears

I sat in front of the screen for several hours this morning unable to conjure one word to place on this page. Ruminating in the open cavity from which words will not seem to flow is an ache and sadness. It’s a cavity filled with the Covid losses, piling atop each other. But this latest loss seems to be the one releasing the pressure of them all. As I, and four of my kids, were about to board a flight for San Diego for a family reunion last Friday, I opened my email to a document that the county of San Diego was issuing a shelter-in-place order effective that day. We had been deliberating throughout the previous few days whether or not to go. Dennis and two of our kids decided to remain home, the rest of us were going to take the leap and seek to be wise in our interactions while there. And then I read the order and chose not to board the plane. We returned to our home in muggy, hot Orlando while the rest of my family rolled into San Diego for a week to play with each other. The government hasn’t enforced the order. “The beaches are open, it’s the best weather my family has ever had there, the resort is cleaner than it’s ever been”—all of the salt which burns my aching heart.

I stand on my tip toes as I stack this loss atop the growing pile of unmet longings and crushed dreams and desires which litter this Coronavirus season. I’ve spent too much energy beating myself up for my decision to not board the plane out of my disappointment. Why is it so much easier to let my disappointment morph into self-contempt than to choose the high road of feeling the ache and inviting Jesus to comfort me in my disappointment? Shame slithers in so stealthily to beat my tender heart to a pulp.

Some moments, I tell myself that my losses are insignificant compared to others. I have a friend who suddenly died of cancer last month, leaving behind her children who are 16 and 19. Out of nowhere. Compared to her family’s loss, mine is insignificant. Then Jesus reminds me that He and I are co-authoring a story through my life and mine is also a significant story, for I am His glorious image bearer. And right now, I am living in my story and He desires to be with me there. If I don’t attend to my story, but diminish it in light of another’s story, then I’ve missed an opportunity of His with-ness.

So I attune to my heartache and put words to the emotions bubbling deep within. Neuroscientists have shown that this practice actually integrates the hemispheres of the brain. I’ve found it brings the integration my soul thirsts for—which only comes by letting the emotions move through my body and exit in tears, words, screams, or whatever form they desire to embody. 

The healing of our wounds is not as the world understands healing: closure and scarring. Rather, our wounds are transfigured by tears. By God’s grace, these wounds become united with Christ’s. It is through our wounds that kenosis takes place, and God enters. Our wounds, thus united with God’s, are the beginning of our glorified body. —Maggie Ross

Our wounds are an opening

When I think about the way Jesus interacted with people, he entered into their wounds. He moved toward them fearlessly, was willing to be contaminated by them, and restored them with His healing touch. He enters us through our wounds. But, If we aren’t present in our losses in addition to our gains, we miss the opportunities to commune with Him in a way that doesn’t happen in other seasons. I think one of the most tender verses in Psalms states, 

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)

Pause. Soak in the reality that God keeps track of all of our sorrows. All of them.

He attends to every one of our tears.

And He doesn’t stop there.

He records the story of each one in His book.

If this verse doesn’t exclaim that the God of the universe is an attuned, tender and compassionate lover who desires to do life with us, what does? I imagine that the Father, Son and Spirit intend to do something with their collection of bottles of tears, which is a massive one considering the number of image bearers who’ve lived on this earth. Perhaps they are going to retell us the stories of our hearts one day when we are with them face-to-face. And so I let the tears flow and enter into the ache which I don’t want to feel but will own my body if I don’t. And I invite Jesus to be there with me— transforming me with His comfort.  

My losses, at times, feel small compared to others’ losses. Yet, if I begin to minimize them, I miss the opportunity to encounter Jesus in the tenderized places in my soul where I’m likely more open to union with Him than usual.

In the depths of tears we find our tears are God’s. God weeps, and the will of God emerges from divine tears mingled with ours. God’s willing powerlessness and involvement in co-creation extends to every moment and every eventuality, and the divine mercy pervades every suffering. God willingly suffers. –—Maggie Ross

I’m finding myself wrestling to remain at rest in my soul during this pandemic season. Creating space to attune to the losses weighing on my heart has released a small pool of tears this week. They have felt like a cleansing interior wash amidst the storm, and eventually, have brought rest into my soul.

a practice

How are you responding to your losses? Have you carved out space to tune into their affect on you? What if you didn’t need to brush over them, suck it up, ignore them—but saw them as an invitation for communion with your Creator? As a practice this week, create space to interact with Jesus over your losses. He’s on the edge of His seat awaiting your invitation to be with you in those spaces. If He doesn’t feel safe to invite in, then begin there—sharing with Him that He doesn’t feel like a safe person but that you’d like to encounter Him as the safe God that He is. Perhaps you’ll be transfigured through His with-ness and tears.