No More Tears to Cry
At church recently, a young missionary spoke about a woman whose life had been marked by tragedy. Hardship in a third-world country had been followed by years of further suffering—the deaths of her husband and son among them. The woman stoically told the missionary, I have no more tears to cry. Those words stayed with me long after the meeting ended.
During thirty-five years with the LAPD, I encountered victims of violent crime whose suffering had brought them to a similar place. Their response to having no more tears to cry differed profoundly. Some cloaked themselves in victimhood until the crime became the defining incident of their lives. Others refused to let the perpetrator determine the rest of their futures. And some were caught between the two extremes, often varying from day to day. I found it difficult to understand the source of the inner difference.
Whatever course their lives took after the crime, they were all fundamentally changed by what happened. Neither the suspect’s arrest nor a conviction could magically return a victim to the life they had known before. Their sense of safety—their sense of self—remained broken. Justice might punish the perpetrator, but the victim still had to learn to live with the crime’s mental and physical scars.
Some met this struggle with a determination I came to recognize as a refusal to remain a victim. They may have been unable to defeat the perpetrator during the crime, but they fought on against the damage he left behind. Their refusal gave them a purpose beyond remembering what had been done to them. They intended to have a life the offender could no longer direct. The struggle might take years, yet they refused to surrender their future.
For those still caught in victimhood or swinging between the two extremes, the way forward often required forgiving themselves for having been victims. They knew who was responsible for the crime, but they still blamed themselves for trusting the wrong person or failing to recognize danger. The blame held them where they were. Decisions made while terrified became the subject of relentless examination afterward. With time to consider alternatives, they judged themselves for responses made when time and choice had been taken from them. They could be merciless toward the person they had been in those moments.
There clearly is no guilt in having been overpowered or deceived. Yet a voice in their head insists otherwise—You should have known. The power of this voice is impervious to reason. I have, however, seen its hold weaken if they can learn to talk to themselves with the same assurances they would offer another victim. If they can accomplish this, a different life—a rebirth—becomes possible.
As I dealt with the victims of violent crime, I learned not to judge anyone’s strength by how quickly they reached this point. A person who appeared crushed might be making an effort I could not see. Someone determined to move forward could still have days when the pain overwhelmed them. But in those finding their way forward, I witnessed a growing ability to make room for a future beyond the crime.
My faith offers a way to understand how such renewal can happen when a person has exhausted their own strength. In my experience, healing finds an opening when we give the pain over to Christ. Believing He can help is one step toward entrusting Him with the suffering we have been trying to bear alone. We may need to bring Him our self-blame along with the anguish another person caused. We can ask Him to help us accept the mercy we have been unable to extend to ourselves.
His beautiful promise in Matthew 11:28 is Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. He goes on to invite us to take His yoke and learn of Him. I find comfort in the image of being yoked with Christ when a burden exceeds our strength. A yoke is built for two. Beside Him, a load we could not budge alone finally moves, and a road we could no longer travel becomes one we can walk.
We may need to return to this invitation many times as we move through mortality. A memory can revive a fear we thought had been eased. An accusation we believed settled can return. Asking for help again does not make the earlier prayer a failure. It is part of the refining—part of learning to turn our countenance toward Christ the Redeemer and to trust Him with what we cannot resolve alone.
Little by little, a crime can loosen its claim on a victim’s future. A person may become willing to trust someone again or consider a hope they had abandoned. Such moments look ordinary to those who have never lost the freedom to experience them. For someone reclaiming a life, they are victories over the continuing harm the perpetrator caused. The pain may still be present, but the possibility of joy returns.
My thoughts keep returning to the woman the missionary met and the exhaustion in her words. I cannot know the full extent of her suffering, but I believe Christ understands every loss she has endured. She does not have to find more tears before she can ask Him to share her burden. Having no more tears to cry does not mean we have nothing left to bring to Christ. We can still bring Him the pain tears can no longer express.