No more tears left to cry.

The night of weeping.

Photo by Matthew Henry on Unsplash

Last week was a lie. I have to confess that to you. I lied to you last week and made you believe that everything was all right. That life was normal. I tweeted and posted to keep up the facade of “business as usual,” when it was anything but that. Last week was, perhaps, the worst week of my life.

My mom, the staid, sober-minded pastor’s wife of 30-odd years, has suffered a severe emotional and mental health crisis. For the past several days, my entire family has lived in limbo as we wait to get her back and navigate the unknown road ahead.

Never have I wept like I did last week. Never have I prayed like I did last week. A flood of emotions, ranging from intense anger to deep sadness to hushed courage, have raced through my mind with reckless abandon. My eyes are tired. Not due to lack of sleep (that may be true) but because I’ve cried them dry. I don’t know if I have any more tears left. Whatever turmoil has dispirited my mom’s ability to think clearly has reached its ugly fingers to crush the rest of us, too. One by one, I see the harrowing grief of my family as we sit helplessly. Paralyzed by misery, we pray. It’s the only thing we know to do. It’s the only thing we can do. We are not without hope, though.

I can relay to you now that God’s mercy has flooded our family in the answering of many prayers. We’ve seen the Lord’s healing hand caress my mom and sustain her through this trying season. Likewise, we’ve been inundated with testimonies of friends and family’s intercessions on her and our behalf. There’s a long road ahead but we are exceedingly grateful and hopeful.

I’m exhausted from weeping. From crying to God. From screaming to my Savior to have mercy on one of his beloved daughters. To be gracious to my mom. I don’t know the “why.” It’s likely I’ll never know. But I’m clinging to One who’s Lord over every tribulation and Captain of every storm. I’m hopeful because I’m praying to a God who knows all of my feelings and the weight of my mom’s infirmities. He’s familiar with our suffering and he’s faithful in the midst of it.

I’m praying. Because I can’t cry.

I have no more tears left.