My heart ached in a way I hadn’t expected. How do you explain the mix of emotions when God meets you in a new way, in a new place, and then you have to leave it all behind? Guatemala had been more than a vacation. It was where I felt both deeply at rest and more fully myself than I had in a long time. To return to the hustle, the busyness, the need to impress and perform, it felt like stepping out of a sanctuary and back into the storm. My heart was torn between two countries.
I’ll be the first to admit, I spent most of the morning in tears. That’s not typically my default. Anger has always been my go-to emotion (sad, but true). But that day? I couldn’t stop. Not pretty, movie-scene tears either, more like blotchy-face, puffy-eyes, “someone hand this woman a box of Kleenex” tears. My kids were in the hotel room with me, throwing each other looks like, what do we do, nothing is working?
When our Guatemalan friend arrived to drive us to the airport, I tried to explain how sad I was to leave. He listened kindly and then told us something: he had prayed for us, weeks before we ever arrived. He confessed that he’d been nervous about picking us up, but the minute we met, it felt like family. And with that, the tears began to form again.
Here’s the funny thing, I had just gotten myself together. Eyes dried, dignity somewhat restored. And then, right there in the middle of Guatemala City traffic, he began to pray. Over me. Over my children. Over our flight. Even over the pilot who would carry us home, and specifically for wisdom in the pilot's decisions. And just like that, click. The sprinklers turned back on. My kids didn’t even react this time, they just shrugged like, welp, round three. Honestly, I couldn’t decide if it was more touching or embarrassing, so I laughed through my tears and called it both.
Then, he asked if we’d like to stop at a local craft market before heading to the airport. Of course, we said yes. Anything to delay the goodbye. We wandered through the stalls, buying our last souvenirs, holding on to every color and every sound. And I’ll admit, it felt good to be distracted by woven textiles and wooden carvings instead of my soggy tissues.
At the airport, we took photos together. We hugged. We said our goodbyes. Somehow, I pulled it together long enough to get through TSA and Customs, though I’m fairly certain my passport picture looked more composed than the real-life version standing in line that day.
What I realized later is that my tears weren’t just about leaving Guatemala. They were about something far deeper. They were about the presence of my Savior in those mountains, in those villages, in that time away from the noise of life. Saying goodbye to Guatemala felt a little like saying goodbye to those moments, and I wasn’t ready.
The Grief
They sat stunned. The flicker of lamplight on the walls was strangely dim after hearing His words. The disciples had grown used to Jesus being with them, eating with them, laughing with them, walking dusty roads side by side. His presence was their safety net, their anchor. And now He was saying, “I am going away.”
What they didn’t know was how close they were to the darkest night of their lives. Within hours, soldiers would come with torches. Judas would betray Him with a kiss. Peter would deny Him three times before the rooster crowed. The One who had walked on water, who had multiplied loaves and fish, who had spoken life to dead men, He would be arrested, beaten, mocked, and nailed to a cross. The disciples couldn’t see it yet. But Jesus knew. And because He loved them, He began preparing them.
Up until now, He hadn’t told them all of this. Why? Because He was with them. They didn’t need to know what was ahead when they could simply turn to Him with their questions, their fears, their doubts. But now, the hour had come. His physical presence would soon be taken, and they needed to understand that His absence wasn’t the end of the story.
The Bible doesn’t record the disciples openly weeping in that room, but I don't think its a leap of the imagination to say there were a few tears shed. Jesus Himself acknowledged the weight of their sorrow. He looked at them and said, “Because I have said these things, you are filled with grief.” (John 16:6). Their faces were marked with anguish. Their hearts were heavy, maybe even their eyes watering with unshed tears.
They weren’t stoic, unfeeling men. These were fishermen, tax collectors, ordinary people who had staked everything on Jesus. And when He spoke of leaving, they weren’t just losing a teacher, they were losing the Friend who had calmed their storms, the Shepherd who knew them by name.
Scripture doesn’t tell us outright, but I can imagine Peter clenching his jaw, blinking hard to fight the sting in his eyes. I can picture John, the one known for leaning against Jesus’ chest, feeling his heart fracture at the thought of separation. Maybe Thomas, the questioner, whispered, “But how can this be?” while Matthew buried his face in his hands.
Jesus saw all of it. He didn’t scold them for being emotional. He didn’t say, “Toughen up.” Instead, He gave them a promise:
“You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy.” (John 16:20)
He knew their sorrow was real. He knew their tears were valid. And yet He also knew that on the other side of their heartbreak was resurrection joy, Spirit-filled power, and the kind of presence that would never leave them, not even for a moment.
To help them understand, Jesus gave the disciples an image they could never forget.
“A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world.” (John 16:21)
What a picture. Anyone who has stood near a delivery room, or been in one, knows the truth of those words. The hours of labor, the cries of pain, the sweat, the exhaustion, all of it feels unbearable in the moment. But the instant that newborn takes a first breath, joy floods in. Tears of pain turn into tears of wonder. The anguish is not erased, but it is swallowed up by something greater.
That was the hope Jesus gave His friends. Their grief would be sharp and immediate, like contractions that couldn’t be ignored. They would watch their Lord dragged away in chains. They would hear the hammer of nails against wood. They would hide in fear, wondering if they were next.
But on the other side of that anguish was a joy no Roman soldier, no cross, no stone-sealed tomb could ever take away. Resurrection joy.
So He told them:
“Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.” (John 16:22)
The promise wasn’t that grief would disappear, it was that joy would come and stay. Their sorrow would be temporary, but their joy eternal.
The Flight Home
I sat on the plane, waiting for takeoff. Once again, I had regained my dignity. I had myself under control, and everything seemed fine. Well, mostly fine. My heart was still heavy, but at least the waterworks weren’t on full display anymore.
We sat on the runway longer than usual, and then the pilot’s voice crackled over the speaker. In a Texas drawl, he said, “There’s a storm moving in, and I have a decision to make. I’ve got to tell you, I’m just not inclined to fly into this. We’re going to wait another 30 minutes for it to move.”
Considering our driver had prayed specifically over the pilot’s decisions, I felt the tears welling up again. It was like God was whispering, See? I’m still here.
Beside me sat a woman, probably in her 80s. She was hunched over, and it was clear she didn’t speak English. So I pulled out my phone, opened my translator app, and typed a quick explanation of what the pilot had said. She read it, placed her wrinkled hands over mine, looked into my eyes, and said, “Gracias.” Then, right there in her seat, she folded those same hands, bowed her head, and began to pray.
Well, that was it. Cue the sprinklers. Waterworks: back on. I refused to look at her, with her sweet hands and her crown of gray hair bowed in prayer. Refused. But it didn't matter.
I cried on and off for the entire three-and-a-half-hour flight home. I turned toward the window most of the time, hoping my seatmate wouldn’t notice my blotchy face, but there was nothing I could do. Tears came in waves, and I had to just let them.
And the truth is, they didn’t stop when we landed. Or the next day. Or the day after that. Sure, I held it together for work, putting on the composed face everyone expected. But each evening when I came home, the tears would start again. This went on for three full days.
Ever since, I’ve caught myself thinking about Guatemala almost daily. When can I go back? How soon can I return? Because that trip wasn’t just a vacation. It was a glimpse of God’s nearness in a way I hadn’t experienced before.
I loved that trip. I saw God in that trip. And I fell more in love with Jesus because of that trip.
My tears weren’t weakness, they were worship. They were the overflow of a heart that had tasted God’s goodness and wasn’t ready to let go. And maybe that’s why the tears kept coming. Because once you’ve encountered the presence of God in such a real way, tears are the only natural response.
The trip ended, yes, but I have a feeling the story God began in me there is still unfolding.
At least I hope so.
Add your comment