Tears That Bring Hope

All of us have something that our emotions can’t deal with. For some people, it is childhood illness. For others, it may be mistreatment of animals, domestic abuse, or something else. When we are confronted with the struggles of those victims we try to deny it, then become overwhelmed by anger and sadness.

I wasn’t aware of the area where I was totally defenseless until it found me. It is a condition that cannot be fought and robs people of their very identities.

My mother-in-law was a victim of early onset dementia. We witnessed her frustration when she first couldn’t find the right words to finish a sentence, and then later when she was unable to complete tasks she had once enjoyed.

Our kids could not understand why their grandmother didn’t know who they were anymore. Eventually, when Kim told her “It’s my fortieth birthday, Mom” there was no recognition left in her eyes. Her mother wanted badly to know who people were, but her memories of them were just no longer there.

Day by day, we sat by helpless as a vicious disease slowly stole her life. Each of the little things that made her special disappeared, one at a time. It was a heartbreaking process that lasted for years and took an enormous toll on everyone. By the time she passed away, there was nothing left of who she had once been. I wouldn’t curse my worst enemy with that pain.

Less than five years later, my mother could no longer hide the same symptoms.

I don’t like to talk about my mom’s condition. It hurts me to answer questions when there is no hope of a cure. I don’t know how to help, or even how to handle my own jumbled emotions.

I have always been close to her. We talked almost daily wherever I lived, but we can’t anymore. I still visit her regularly but miss her desperately. I wish I knew a way to reclaim the sweet, loving person who touched so many lives. I am helpless.

When I recognized the same early symptoms in a friend the other day, I didn’t want to believe it, then alternated between being angry and wishing I could push it out of my mind.

The Gospel of John, chapter 11, verse 35 is the favorite verse of every lazy kid assigned to memorize a Bible verse. It reads simply

It is part of the story of Lazarus. Four days after Lazarus’ death, Jesus joined the funeral party. When he saw the overwhelming sorrow that had consumed both family and friends, he became angry at first and then began to cry. He gathered himself and raised Lazarus from the dead. Showing his power over the grave was a pivotal point in his ministry.

In my search for comfort during hard times, the simple verse “Jesus wept” troubled me.

Jesus knew his identity as the author of life. He knew with certainty that Lazarus would rise to live with him again in a glorious celebration that exceeded anything he had known before. He even knew that Lazarus would walk out of his grave in a few moments to rejoin those he loved.

But the sadness, pain, suffering, and loss of life brought the Savior himself to tears. Although he was able to do anything, the sorrow in this world was so great that he wept.

If Jesus was affected that deeply, how can I hope to find peace?

Crushing sorrow became unbearable in the knowledge that the creator himself was reduced to tears. The pain was so great and relief so far away that I simply gave up.

That was when God told me that I had it all wrong.

Jesus didn’t weep because of the situation. His tears didn’t come because of the hardship or lost hope. Even as he brought the answer to their prayers, he had paused to connect with them and to share their pain.

There is a big difference between Jesus crying with us in our pain and crying because the pain in this world overwhelmed him. He conquered this world, but he never left us behind.

It is hard for me to fathom a savior who can breathe life into a hundred billion galaxies but patiently comforts me. He rules over everything but cares about the daily struggles of one small man who is sad because his mom is sick.

That is why I make a decision every day to give my life to him. It’s not the infinite power. It’s not a sense of obligation. It’s certainly not a fear of hellfire or endless punishment. It’s because I can always depend on his love for me being total and complete. His love is so personal that he will cry with me. He cries for you, too.

One day all the pain will be gone, and I will be reunited with those who have been taken from me. We will sing praises to the one who not only saved us from death but loves us enough to share every moment. If he is there in our sorrow, how much more in our celebration?

My prayer today: 
Father, help me to reflect your spirit. When I serve others, remind me to slow down and connect with them. Your light shines the brightest when others feel that I care, not merely because they receive my assistance. May I be filled with your love and compassion for each of my brothers and sisters. Amen.