Naming Tears of Sadness

 I cried late at night last week — all by myself. You know, the kind of ugly cry that fills the trash can with the entire box of tissues, and you’re still leaking. The kind that you hope nobody sees, but the tears, not to mention the obvious facial evidence, last well into the next day. In this season of change, uncertainty, and overwhelm, I could name these tears after any one of those things. However, these tears were different, special. I named these tears sadness.

I had been holding my breath for most of that Wednesday. In the afternoon we had stepped on the campus of my oldest daughter’s elementary school. It was a short trip. Just to pick up her belongings that had been left behind two months ago. The belongings that she had anticipated only a week or two before once again being reunited with. Instead, they sat within their cohort of white, labeled trash bags outside her locked classroom in the empty school that her teacher was not allowed to enter. We barely saw anyone, and when we did, our eyes revealed the stories of the past few months.

This week her class would have been walking across a stage, alongside the friends and teachers my daughter had spent over half her life with, learning with, growing with, and living with. This week should be filled with tears, laughter, and excitement as they step together into a future of change, of new; preparing their hearts for new environments, new friends, new challenges…their new normal. They had been anticipating this moment all year, and they thought they were ready.

But we never anticipated a global pandemic would throw an ugly detour into the mix.

Instead, this tight-knit group of ten- and eleven-year olds were thrown into different environments and a whole new situation two months sooner than expected. An abrupt end to their elementary life–their childhood. And while technology tools kept them learning and kept them connected, there is no denying the loss of these final two months. Loving embraces, recesses, class parties, dancing, lunch tables, and fist bumps had shifted to a Brady Bunch screen full of distanced fifth graders, clap emojis, and air hugs.

As a mother, I watched her grow in her abilities to adapt, and her resilience to the world changing around her. And I sit here in awe of her strength, for as I find myself broken, mourning the moments she will never have, she chooses instead to embrace all that she has and all that she has gained.

I wonder what this event will spark in a generation like hers. I wonder how they will read the events of today and mature into the history makers of tomorrow. What will they remember of these years? What will they forget? What passions have been ignited? What seeds have been planted?

Will my own children remember their mother standing in the kitchen on that ordinary Thursday morning with eyes puffy and red from a long night of sorrow? Will they remember how I tried to explain that this is how sometimes overwhelm and sadness manifests itself, and it’s okay to cry out loud? That it’s okay to not be strong all the time.

Will they remember that even when I couldn’t stop the tears, I still trusted the promises of Jesus to get me through this…and to get US through this? Will they see how we need to be broken sometimes to realize where our strength really comes from. That despite the tears and sadness, God’s mercies are new every morning and we are always welcome into it; and that no matter where we are, in sorrow or in rejoicing, He is with us. He is with me.

I wonder if these seeds being planted will take root and one day bear fruit. But then I realize it’s all in God’s hands…as most all things are.

So as we wrap up the first stage of this pandemic life, and as change, learning, and growth await us around the turn of this seemingly never-ending circle, can I encourage you to allow yourself to be real with those around you—and with yourself. Let them see your tears of heartache and overwhelm. Let them see your tears of laughter, and hug them with tears of joy. Let them see you crying out tears of all names as they water the seeds of hope you’re planting.

When it truly comes down to it, it’s okay if my daughter still doesn’t have her multiplication facts down, or my son didn’t have a chance to raise his final semester grade. It’s okay to be mad about missed experiences. It’s okay to enjoy waking up at 9 every morning. It’s okay to have good days and rough ones. It’s okay to make memories and it’s okay to entirely forget what day it is. It’s okay to brave masks and social distancing and it’s okay to choose to stay home for a little while longer.

Because whatever comes of these moments, one of the things I want most for my children to remember, one of the seeds that I pray will take root, is that even when their mom fell to her knees on Thursday, God gave her the strength to dance again with them on Friday.