#HomilyFromThePew

There is love language.
There is body language.
But there is also something sacred, what I call gratitude language.

Mine is simple:
I cry.
Not out of despair. Not out of bitterness. Not because life betrayed me.
But because grace found me.

I have lived long enough to realize that my tears are not always a symptom of sorrow—they are often the sacrament of gratitude. When I feel the weight of heaven’s mercy or witness God’s faithfulness, especially through the fragile hands of humanity, I weep.

This is how I worship.
This is how I say, “Thank You, Lord.”

I Do Not Build My Life Around Promises People Make

Over the years, I have learned not to build the architecture of my hope on the scaffolding of human promises. I have no business standing at the bus stop of man’s intentions, waiting to be picked up by what was never guaranteed.

No, I anchor my life on the certainty of what God can do.
So when people disappoint, I do not shatter, I simply shift.
I keep moving, not out of pride, but because my hope was never parked there.

My First Tears of Pain

The last time I recall weeping from pain was the day my paternal grandmother passed.
She was more than blood. She was my covering, the matriarch who stood between me and the lash of abuse. When she died, I didn’t just lose a grandmother. I lost a line of defense.
And so I wept.

But since then, my tears have rarely belonged to pain.
I do not weep because men are wicked, wickedness does not shock me.
I weep when compassion breaks through cruelty.
When grace shines through grit.
When a story defies statistics and mercy rewrites history.

The Week I Cried Again… And Again

This week, the tears returned. Not for me, but for what God is doing in others.
It started with the memory of our miracle: after fifteen years of waiting, we were told we were pregnant.
I wept.

Not just a tear, but an eruption. Gratitude flowing like a river that had held back too long.
“Faithful God,” I whispered through sobs.
“You remembered me.”

But then, came the other stories.

1. The Single Mother’s Triumph
   A young boy raised in a foreign land by a single mother.
   A country where boys raised by women are often swallowed by statistics.
   But this one grew in wisdom and stature, in favor with God and man.
   He didn’t just graduate, he stood as valedictorian.
   I wept. Not just for him, but for the mother who dared to believe,
   who fought through shame, scarcity, and silence, yet raised a king.
2. The Girl Who Almost Missed Her Flight
   A young athlete, burdened by family chaos, nearly missed the competition.
   She made it, barely.
   And went on to break a ten-year record.
   She didn’t just run. She rewrote history.
   I wept again. Because being on the edge is not abandonment.
   Because the edge is often where God stands to catch us.

These stories were not mine.
But they were mine.
Because humanity is shared.
And compassion means allowing someone else’s testimony to echo in your spirit as though it were your own.

The Deepest Truth

I do not cry because I am weak.
I cry because I remember.

I remember the pit I was rescued from.
I remember the years when the heavens were silent.
I remember the God who walks into wildernesses, not always to end them, but to walk with us through them.

And I remember this:
Triumph never arrives without a test.
But every test, when endured with grace, adds a line to your song, a depth to your prayer, and a reason for your tears.

So yes, I weep.

Because victory is not always loud.
Sometimes it is a whisper in the dark.
Sometimes it is a tear that speaks what words never could.

#MemoToMySoul
Tears are not weakness. They are worship.
Let them flow.
For every tear shed in gratitude becomes a seed sown in eternity.