Heavenly Tears

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted. . .~Psalm 34:18

I was working through the grieving process--one that seemed to come without a reservation and at the most inconvenient of times. My mother had told me to set aside time to grieve the loss but after a couple of blog posts and processing it with my family and a couple of close friends, I was ready to move on. Or so I thought.

I'm very good at pushing away feelings of loss when it comes to relationships. I go into autopilot mode where the person who was close to me is no longer an important part of my life. I am able to disconnect because I've had a lifetime of learning to disconnect. Ironically, the part of life that should have rooted me the most to who I was, shaping my understanding of how it worked and what was really important, this part was the one I lost far too often. Each time I had to pack up my cloth bunny, often the only constant from country to continent, along with mementos acquired along the way, I dismissively let go of the ones who meant the most. Just as I didn't shed a tear when the church ladies bought a spray painted gold chain that was once a handbag's strap but I'd removed and connected into a single loop, so I shed few tears when we left. After all, we were headed to a new adventure and there were many exciting things ahead.

My mother tells me that when we left West Africa, I cried for days. Somehow I was not convinced that life could be any better than the one I lived, in a simple house with blue tile bathrooms and mosquito nets over our beds. I loved my bicycle that featured prominently in many photographs, our next door neighbor who played GI Joes with me and occasionally invited us over to play on monkey bars that we envied through the dividing wire fence, and driving out to our agricultural school on a dusty road with a crossroads I just barely remember. But we had to go. Which meant I pushed the memories so deep down that I no longer existed before age 9, at least in the tangible for the sensory memories still come with a flash. Summer rains hard on earth with that deep salty smell is the strongest of them.

When I left Lebanon, it hurt all over again. Only this time I was leaving two very close friends behind and it was almost too much to handle. I cried on the way to the airport; I cried in the plane; I cried when I saw one friend drive off on the back of a motorbike after he'd skipped school just to come say goodbye. Even today, when I take the time to grieve a deep relational loss, my emotions instantly return to that day and the pain compounds in intensity. I'm grieving all the losses previously unrecognized in each loss I encounter today.

That time was dark. I had to be strong for my mother as we both figured out life in the New World and she learned how to be the sole provider for me and my two younger siblings. Slowly we began to trudge out of the shadows into a reality that held hope and light but it took many years. During that time, I could not let the losses overwhelm me. I could not let them dictate who I was. I had to evolve once again into the perfect immigrant who spoke the slang in the correct twang whilst blending in so well that even my close friends forgot I wasn't American.

I buried so much so deep down that I began to fear I was becoming someone I didn't know. There was my life before the US and my life after with all the longing in my heart to return to the life before. I knew it wasn't realistic. I had to get a college education, get a job, and start living the adult life. Yet that yearning never failed to disappear even as I felt the biggest loss of all--the loss of who I was. I had not brought together who I was before with who I was now. I constantly fought with the system where I lived and worked, refusing to let it dictate what I had to become to be acceptable. Yet I sadly saw myself changing in order to be part of the community because belonging seemed to be more important than becoming.

Somehow, my mother instinctively understood all of this and worked hard to create a safe haven in the midst of the emotional turmoil that I couldn't express let alone relinquish. She made sure I knew that at home I was accepted for who I was and not what I did. She pointed out that the community's attempt to control was not acceptable and constantly directed me and my siblings to the Bible and its practical balance to help us navigate the intricacies of solidifying our value systems.

Then I returned. The past 18 months have been soul-healing for me. After years of battling what I knew to be wrong even as I tried to figure out what was, of struggling with the paradox that I wanted to fit in even as I didn't want to be identified as American, of pretending my childhood was perfect even as I pushed its memory beyond recall, I can finally rest my weary heart. I can begin to slowly put together the jigsaw puzzle that has been tumbled into a million pieces and see who I really am. I can take joy in knowing that each piece has mattered and, whether good or bad, has been a valuable part of my identity up to today.

I can mourn the losses, yes, but I can also embrace the joys. It's a paradox we live in as TCKs. I am afraid to fully live in the joy because I know from experience that its end will be sharp with pain. More than a child crying at the end of an afternoon spent in the nearby playground, this pain is tempered with finality. Yes, we may see you again, but we may not. And even if we do, the seeing will never be as deep as the knowing. This knowing is what I miss the most and try the hardest to keep as an adult, even through my self-sentenced moves.

Today a dear friend stopped by to see me. It had been too long and distance, unwanted by me but dictated by circumstances, was wide between us. As they left, they reached out for me once more in gesture and the sting was once again strong. I returned to my room in the dorm and poured out my pain to my Heavenly Father.

As I did so, I began to feel the sorrow lift. A time of mourning turned into a time of empathy as I realized these emotions were not new to God. When I mourn a loss it is because I love that person. Yet my love for them is negligible compared to God's love for humankind. God is love. He is defined by this characteristic.

Each human on this earth was created by God. Me, you, every person. God doesn't make mistakes. He created us to be relational beings because He loves to be in relationship with us and wants us to experience this joy both with each other and with Him. Yet He also had to make us with a free moral will and the ability to choose whether or not to love Him back. This breaks my heart. I cannot imagine, if the pain I feel seems overwhelming when I must say goodbye to someone who is so dear to me, how God must feel when the person He so lovingly created rejects Him. God's heart must be strong to carry the pain of millions of people who have chosen to turn away from His love.

When God says He is close to the brokenhearted, it is not just a careless statement. God has empathy for me in my pain because He has lost too. Beginning with Satan and a third of the angels, then down through the centuries as humans have chosen to believe the deceiver and his lies rather than their Creator of love, He has lost far too many who He has dearly loved. John said God will wipe away our tears. But who will wipe away His?