Discovering God Through Tears
“I’m sorry that I’m crying.”
I hear that sentence far too often, and every time, something in me bristles. As a prayer coach, I’ve spent years helping people embrace honest, unfiltered communication with God—and I’ve learned that tears are not a problem to apologize for. They are a language. A doorway. A holy signal that something real is happening.
I’ve watched tears unlock forgiveness that someone thought was impossible. I’ve seen them mark the moment we stepped onto sacred ground—where God’s presence was so thick that words simply couldn’t carry the weight of it. I’ve recognized them as a warning light, revealing a place that needs deeper attention before the Lord. And I’ve celebrated tears of joy when someone glimpsed the future God was opening for them.
Some of my favorite moments are when a person receives a download from God and tears spill over—because that’s when they’ve crossed into a oneness with Him that defies explanation. I love people who cry. I trust people who cry. Because I know God is right there with them.
When I see tears, I think of Psalm 56:8 (TPT):
“You’ve kept track of all my wandering and my weeping.
You’ve stored my many tears in your bottle—not one will be lost.”
For they are all recorded in your book of remembrance.
God doesn’t just tolerate our tears—He treasures them. He keeps them. He records them.
And then there’s the woman in Luke 7:38 (TPT), the one everyone in the room labeled a sinner:
“Broken and weeping, she covered His feet with her tears… drying them with her hair… kissing them… anointing them with costly perfume.”
The room tried to silence her. Jesus refused. He made sure her tears would be remembered for all time.
Just the other day, I found myself crying out of sheer frustration and anger. And God was there. I know because later that night, as my husband read our devotion, the lesson spoke directly to those tears—addressing them as if God had been sitting beside me the whole time. Which, of course, He was.
So please—don’t tell someone not to cry. Don’t make them feel embarrassed. And whatever you do, don’t hand them a tissue before they ask. A premature tissue is a silent message: Your emotions are too much. I can’t handle them. Please tidy this up. I’ve watched the movement of God evaporate because of one well‑intentioned tissue. It often triggers a cascade of apologies that makes me want to cry for them.
Tears are not a disruption. They are the blessing of raw emotion, revealing the truth of a situation.
So cry, baby, cry. Let the waterworks flow. Think of tears as fuel that moves heaven. When God stirs something deep, either join Him or step aside and let Him work.
My prayer is that each of us learns to stand firm in this God‑given gift of crying—guarding it like the rare and holy treasure it is.
