Tears turning to joy: Could I believe it? Would I believe it?

The Pearl of Africa, a 1974 Toyota Land Cruiser, was perfect for travel in Africa. Our fellow orientees had voted my husband, Dave, as their point person during our final three weeks, so our director handed The Pearl’s keys to him.

In the two months leading up to that final phase, Brian, our orientation director, had taught us to drive The Pearl . . .

 

through deserts,

across rivers,

around potholes,

up and down mountainsides,

and across vast savannahs in search of lions and elephants.

 

Brian showed us how to change punctured tyres.

 

And how to push The Pearl through a stream. (At that time, little did I know how many times I’d have to push The Pearl.)

And so it was that on our first day high in the Taita Hills, Dave and I had loaded the Mwakodis into The Pearl and headed to their church’s service.

 

Back home that afternoon, we gave the congregation’s gift to us—four eggs and two bunches of Swiss chard—to Mama Mwakodi, who served them for dinner.

 

At the end of that first day, I walked outside at dusk. I leaned against The Pearl, listened to bush babies crying from the trees, and surprised myself.

 

I cried.

 

I didn’t know what triggered my tears, but probably a combination of things.

 

For a long time, I had dreaded this part of orientation. I knew it would be the hardest part. I felt nervous about living with strangers. Being an introvert hurts.

 

I had lived almost two and a half months in the bush, and it was beginning to catch up with me. I could feel the fatigue at the core of my being.

 

Physically speaking, I had left the desert and entered a land cloaked in luxuriant vegetation, but emotionally I had left a lush spot and entered a desert place.

 

I thought back to August when, on our way to Africa, Dave and I had spent a few days in England and Scotland, thanks to a money gift for our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

 

At the Wycliffe Centre in Horsleys Green, England, we’d lived in an old World War II barracks. A poster in our dorm room displayed Psalm 126:5–6, “Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. He who goes out weeping . . . will return with songs of joy.”

 

I pondered those words at length because I didn’t know what they meant for me, specifically, but I did understand about tears. I had shed tears on my way to Africa because I couldn’t see our children or parents for four long years and because I wondered if I could endure the orientation course.

 

But, what about those verses of God turning tears to joy?

 

Could I believe that was possible?

If so, would I believe it was possible?

Would I believe that God could turn my tears into joy?

 

I had thought about it for a couple of days and then, there in our dark little barracks room in England, I stood before that poster and told God I’d give Him time to turn my tears into songs of joy in Africa.

 

So, there I stood in the lovely, 

yet profoundly foreign, Taita Hills, 

leaning against The Pearl and shedding tears.

 

Good old Habakkuk came to mind, my friend from the Old Testament, a man troubled over various things. God told him,

 

“Look . . . and watch—and be utterly amazed.

For I am going to do something

that you would not believe, even if you were told.”

(Habakkuk 1:5)

 

Habakkuk, still upset, laid out his complaints to God and then said,

“I’ll . . . keep watch . . .

I’ll wait to see what the Lord will say

and how He will answer me.”

(Habakkuk 2:1)

 

Okay, then, I told myself

on that dusky Taita Hills evening.

I will do what Habakkuk did.

I will watch to see what God will do about both tears and joy.

(from Grandma’s Letters from Africa, Chapter 3)

 

What about you? Are you shedding tears today?

 If so, be a Habakkuk: stand tall and watch!

Look and wait, in faith, for God to turn your tears to joy.

May He do something you wouldn’t believe, 

even if you were told.

May He leave you, like Habakkuk, utterly amazed!