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Put my tears into Your bottle; Are they not in Your book?
Psalm 56:8b ESV

I remember when I had my first baby.

Once the labor intensified, I thought to myself, “Okay, I want to go home now; I don’t want to do this anymore.” Well, of course, reality hit, and I knew I was in it for the long haul–like it or not.

I want John back. Can I just say?

In the months after he moved to Heaven, I heard myself saying the same thing, “Okay, I don’t want to do this anymore, I’m ready for this movie to be over so we can go home and begin living normal again.”

July 26 is the anniversary of his move to Heaven, and I miss him. This time of year John would be getting ready to end the school year, and we would be planning our summer. John had summer off, and that is when we had the most fun—we camped, or spent a few weeks traveling up Highway 1 in California or just hung around our little mountain town, sitting outside at the yogurt parlor downtown just people-watching. Every day with John was an adventure. I have photo albums stuffed with the same pictures, taken over and over each year—we didn’t care if we had dozens of the same photos, we simply enjoyed the ride.

So, you can see why this time of year brings up all of those wonderful memories and why I just miss him so much.

John was a fairly new believer, while I was a little more seasoned in my faith. After years of praying for this very self-sufficient, self-confident man, he bowed humbly before Jesus and began devouring the Word of God until the dementia robbed his mind, will and emotions.

But it didn’t rob his Spirit. During those four years of dementia, John grew to love the Word of God. I will never forget how God told me quietly one night, “The Spirit doesn’t get dementia, Kathy.” And it didn’t.

In those first few, very raw months after he moved to Heaven, I hung on every word that would bring me comfort. Like a hungry orphan, I felt myself going from place to place asking for some Word to take away that awful abyss of pain. I wanted to know that the pain would have an end—that was so very important to me.

I wanted to skip over the process and move right into the healing.

Here is what Jesus did. He got my tears in His bottle and stored them up. He sent me widows who were fresh in their grief and every time this happened, He opened up that bottle of my tears and let them spill into and mingle with the pain of another widow, and those tears were my healing and hers. Never underestimate the value of tears—Jesus doesn’t. He stores them up to be used again and again.

Five years have passed. I still grieve—but it is not raw and it seems to be a scar rather than a wound. A wound still hurts when you press on it; a scar does not. The scar will always be there, but the wound has healed—It has healed!

Grief may be more acute in the Spring; that may always be with me and it’s okay. But it isn’t consuming me any longer. And if you are like me, you are desperate to know that there is life after death, not just for our loved ones, but for us here who are left to carry on. Jesus will redeem it all, He will not waste any of it, and He holds our tears so that they can continue to heal both us and others who grieve.

Oh thank You Lord Jesus for storing up my tears. Thank You for redeeming it all! I love You, Amen.