Let Them Flow

A nightmare startled me awake. Someone was leaving, and I was standing alone on the edge of a cliff. Even after opening my eyes, the feeling remained. The dream had touched something already tender, and tears welled up as though what I had dreamed had actually happened.

I climbed out of bed. My feet were heavy. My body was rested, but I was weary. The night before, I had made a long list of everything I needed to accomplish. I could start there, or I could pray and read by Bible.

For a moment, I stood between the two.

I hated that it even felt like a decision. I know better, I told myself. My time with God is not an obligation on a checklist; it strengthens our relationship. Those quiet moments with Him are a place to bring whatever I am carrying and to make room to listen. Yet somehow, that morning an opportunity to be with Him had become another item on my list, something else I felt I was failing to do.

Chastising myself didn’t draw me any closer to God. It only added another layer of tension to a body already holding too much. Perhaps that was part of what I still needed to learn: struggling to come to Him did not mean He had moved away from me.

I grabbed some water and sat at my desk. The formality of it felt comforting. I needed something solid that morning, some kind of structure strong enough to hold me while I became quiet enough to hear what was happening inside.

I opened my devotion and began to read. The topic that morning was knowing Jesus in every situation.

What do I do with that?

So much around me was changing, and I didn’t understand where I fit anymore. Things that once felt familiar suddenly didn’t. I could feel myself fighting against changes I couldn’t control, afraid of what they might mean and where they might leave me.

How was I supposed to find Jesus in the middle of something I didn’t understand?

Father, I’m afraid. I feel lost and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to turn. And right now, I don’t even know how to find you in the middle of this.

I sat back and closed my eyes.

The tears came slowly. I didn’t wipe them away. Instead, I noticed the coolness of one as it traveled down my cheek and onto my neck. There was something oddly comforting about simply letting it go.

I wondered how far it would travel.

One tear reached my collarbone before seeming to disappear into my skin. Another followed close behind. I became still, almost fascinated, noticing that each one eventually reached a place where I could no longer feel it moving.

Then I remembered the words in Psalm 56:8, that God collects our tears in His bottle.

Lord, is that how You do it?

Something in the question broke through the heaviness, like taking a fresh breath after holding it too long.

Do you let them travel only so far before you catch them?

It suddenly dawned on me. I was letting my tears fall. I wasn’t quickly wiping them away or trying to make them stop. I was allowing them to flow as they wanted, feeling each one make its journey until I could no longer feel it.

Why was that so unusual for me?

Usually, I wiped the tears away almost as quickly as they appeared. Somewhere along the way, tears had become something to hide. Shame whispered that I should be stronger. Fear warned that if someone saw how deeply I was hurting, they might pull away.

But if God collects my tears, why am I so determined to hide them?

Father, have I been rushing past something You were never asking me to rush through?

I sat quietly for a while, not hurrying away to pretend everything was better. I let the tears that wanted to fall come as they wanted. I didn’t wipe my face, tell myself that crying was weak, or beg God to take it all away. I simply sat there.

I began to sense a quiet comfort. I was still sad, yet there was an internal peace that had not been there before. The circumstances around me hadn’t changed. Something inside of me had.

I had begun that morning with a question: How was I supposed to find Jesus in the middle of something I didn’t understand? Maybe I had been looking for Him in what was happening around me, waiting for something to change so I would know He was there. I was waiting for Him to appear, and He had been there with me the whole time.

Then I heard it. The familiar whisper that I know is Him. He was quietly speaking to my spirit.

My child, those tears draw you closer to me. There is no shame in them. There is no need to be afraid of who might see. Each one communicates to Me in ways that words cannot express. Let Me catch them. Let them flow.

I closed my eyes and sat back in my chair. I thought again about that bottle that Psalm 56:8 tells about. Maybe I was never meant to hurry them away. If they matter enough for Him to collect them, maybe I need to let them do what they are meant to do.

After all, every tear carries something with it. A longing. A desire. A pain. A need. Parts of me that I didn’t have words for.

And maybe I didn’t need words for them.

Sometimes, I just need to let them flow.