The Key to Connection Part 3: Tears

In my deepest wound I saw your glory and it dazzled me. – St. Augustine

Many years ago I went to the desert to weep.

The pain was suffocating. Fresh from the loss of my mother, my own health was unraveling. Chronic pain became my unwelcome guest, tears a daily intrusion, and focus a distant memory. As if that wasn’t enough, the dream I’d spent five years building – a business and a more fulfilling life for my family – was fading. Those long months caring for Mom during her final days had taken their brutal toll. Nearly twenty pounds lighter, I’d fallen into hallucinations often waking in the middle of the night confused. I was in a bad place, to say the least. There’s more, but for now, it is enough.

Have you ever been there? When the weight of your pain seemed too heavy?

What does one do when there is so much pain? What most people do is stuff it and get back to work. For me, I tried that and it wasn’t working. Pain was leaking out everywhere. I’d lost my ability to work and found myself with not much else to do but feel it. Sure I wanted it to end, but moreso, I knew I needed to enter into it. How could I do that with so much responsibility? Sometimes our bodies don’t give us a choice. I knew I needed a change of scenery, something that matched my inner landscape. After a little thought, I decided to go to the desert.

It sounds simplistic but my goal was to weep. I needed a place to let everything go and not care how I looked or sounded. At the time we lived not far from Joshua Tree National Park. The image of the desert kept coming to me in daydreams, so I decided to listen. I took the two-hour drive, got a hotel outside the entrance, and began my tour of grief.

It was January of 2016 and snow covered the sand. The Joshua Trees opened their arms inviting me further in. It was probably illegal but as I hiked I left the trail choosing the deepest caverns and darkest shadowy places to go see. There I stopped, felt the chill of the wind on my skin and the warmth of the sun on my face.

For days I simply wandered and wept. I brought recordings of my mother’s voice, pictures of my family, and music that reminded me of what I held most dear. I didn’t follow the trails. My only goal was tears. The only compass I carried was my intuition, and it guided me well.

How could it be that the glory of God can be found in our deepest places of pain? I’m afraid this isn’t something that can be explained in a few sentences, but I’ll try.

To understand glory, we need to understand the word, weight. In Exodus 33:8, Moses asks God to show his Glory. The word there is weight. What’s interesting about the story is that God answers that he will allow his “goodness” to pass before Moses. Even more interesting, he hides Moses in the cleft of a rock so Moses can handle it. The result? Moses comes off the mountain glowing (Exodus 34:29-35).

This isn’t meant to be an exhaustive study of the word Glory, but one more example.

The Apostle Paul makes an interesting tie to glory in 2 Corinthians 4:17. “For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison…”

Glory is somehow linked with affliction, and in a strange way God also links this with goodness. What? Why? How? Our Western linear thinking will not help us here. Like good art comes in flashes, in bursts, and then makes sense on the back end, so it is with suffering. There isn’t a beginning and ending point with steps in the middle. No. Suffering is a strange symphony we must ride till its end. Here’s how I discovered this.

The one time I did follow a trail involved the night. I’d chosen this trail deliberately because at the top, the panorama of the park would be visible. I hiked up as the sun was setting, stopping along the way to catch my breath and enjoy the view. As I reached the summit I stopped, waited, and called forward all my feelings.

As dusk turned to black I waited as every car exited the park. Deciding to stay till the last set of headlights was gone, I felt the weather drop into the teens and my skin began to hurt. There on the mountain top with my body in pain and surrounded by darkness I dropped my guard.

I wept and wept and wept. My hot tears turned to subtle points of chill on my skin. Yet as I wiped them away I noticed something new. I felt lighter. I felt validated. And I felt like I could breathe again. Science tells us that tears triggered by grief contain stress hormones, and perhaps in that raw release, my body began to heal.

Friend, you don’t have to “hold it together.” Sometimes the best thing is to find a safe place to let yourself fall apart. As I descended the mountain that evening a scene from the C. S. Lewis story, The Horse and His Boy came to mind.

Shasta is an orphan who has escaped being sold into slavery with a horse who can talk. Together, they reason they can find a place where they can live free. But along the way they get separated as they are chased by lions.

On the mountainside, alone and in the dark Shasta weeps. He wonders why all these horrible things have happened to him. Yet, amidst his grief, he is startled by a noise. He is being followed.

Shasta screams at the presence and asks if it is a ghost, a giant, or something else. To which he hears a quiet response, “some would call me that…”

“Well who are you?” Shasta exclaims. And as the voice speaks he learns it is Aslan. And as Aslan explains himself Shasta asks why others haven’t experienced such hardship. To which Aslan replies:

“Child, I tell no one anyone’s story except his own.”

Walking down the mountain in the winter of Joshua Tree National Park I experienced an epiphany — I was magnifying my own suffering by comparing my life to those who seemed to have it easier. It wasn’t until I embraced my unique version of reality that I began to heal.

Dear Reader, you’re not alone in your pain. We’ve all been there, weighed down by burdens that feel too heavy to bear. Sometimes the strongest response is to simply let go. Find a safe space. Go to a desolate place, or even just a local park and allow yourself to grieve. In that raw release, you might find a lightness you never expected, a validation of your emotions, and perhaps even a spark of hope that guides you toward healing.

If you missed my previous blog about lament, make sure you read it. Stay tuned for the last part of this series on the importance of physical touch when we’re suffering (coming soon). If you’d like to be on my email list to be notified about my upcoming book, I’d be honored to have you (and I won’t spam you!). Join by clicking here.