There are two kinds of tears of relief.
The joy-tears that flow when crises are solved, and the hot pain-tears that well up when scenes of little ones in agony and distress invade the relief worker’s mind.
I’ve known them both.
Tears came when the doctor said, “It’s not malignant,” and when another doctor told Jean, “You have the heart of a seventeen-year-old.” Or like when God let me live and gave my sight back after the point-blank rifle-shot in the back of my head.
Countless foreign hotel pillows have been dampened by my tears as I recounted what I had just lived through—sometimes I didn’t think I’d live the day. And so often there were awe-tears and joy-tears as I thought about how many little lives were rescued that day.
Sometimes, though, the joy-tears were overtaken by the hot pain-tears of seeing little orphaned lives discarded and ravaged by hunger and AIDS. Can you look into the eyes of a child losing the day-by-day battle for life without tears in your own eyes?
I’ve read that God will wipe away all tears. I’ll be happy to never again shed the pain-tears but is it possible He can stop the explosion of awe and joy-tears when I stand in His presence?
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