Sunflowers & Tears

There are seasons when emotions don’t ask our permission. They simply arrive.

For weeks, the tears came unexpectedly. Sometimes attached to a conversation, a memory, a verse. Sometimes attached to nothing at all. A wave of emotion in the kitchen. A rush in the car. The sudden ache behind the eyes that can’t be reasoned away.

And with the tears came shame. I have walked in freedom for over four years now. I have not needed medication. I have been healed. So why now?

Wise therapeutic counsel suggested that sometimes our bodies need support. That sometimes brain chemistry needs stabilizing. That sometimes medication isn’t failure, but help.

So I made the appointment. One with my doctor. One with my pastor. I wanted wisdom from both heaven and earth. I wanted no guessing. No striving. Just clarity.

I prayed boldly: Lord, make it clear. No riddles. No reading between the lines.

That same evening, a friend called. A stranger had a word for me and wanted to meet in the morning. The timing was too precise to ignore. At 9 am, I sat across from Michelle Foreman in mustard yellow with a bright yellow gift bag resting between us.

She spoke gently. “The Joy of the Lord is your strength.” She handed me her book titled Restored to Carry Joy. A sunflower bloomed across the cover. She explained how a sunflower turns its face toward the sun from dawn to dusk. Inside the gift bag was sunflower soap. Bright. Intentional. Unmistakable. We cried together.

I left for my 10:30 meeting with Pastor, the book resting in my car. With fifteen minutes before he arrived, I slipped into my church’s House of Prayer. They were praying fervently. I sat quietly in the corner by the door. When they asked if I had a request, I explained my situation. I told them about the possibility of medication. I told them about the tears. 

Suddenly a man spoke loudly: “The Joy of the Lord is your strength.” My breath caught. Nehemiah 8:10 says, “Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.” Those words were first spoken to people who were weeping as they heard the Law read. Their tears weren’t condemned. They were understood. The joy declared over them wasn’t denial of sorrow. It was covenant assurance in the middle of it. Joy wasn’t the absence of tears. It was the presence of God in the tears.

Then Pastor arrived. He listened. He spoke something balanced and freeing: it’s not a sin to take medication if it’s needed. God isn’t threatened by medical help. But perhaps this could be a season where Jesus invites you to feel your emotions rather than numb them. After all, God created emotions. After years of surviving by suppressing them, perhaps now it’s time to learn their language. And again, he said it. “The joy of the Lord is your strength.”

Three times in less than two hours. The confirmations felt like thunder. I left and canceled the doctor appointment. I praised the Lord for being so near, so specific, so personal.

But here’s what I’m learning.

God’s joy and medical wisdom aren’t enemies. Joy isn’t fragile. It doesn’t disappear if chemistry wobbles. It doesn’t evaporate if tears flow. It’s rooted in Christ, not in mood stability.

The sunflower doesn’t create the sun. It simply turns toward it. I am not responsible to manufacture joy. I am responsible to turn toward the One who holds it within me.

Some tears are connected to stories still healing. Some are connected to grief and loss. Some are connected to the weight I carry in ministry. Some may simply be a nervous system finally safe enough to feel after decades of numbing.

And sometimes they are random. But random doesn’t mean wrong. Psalm 126:5 says, “Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy.” The tears are seed. They aren’t evidence of failure. They’re evidence of cultivation. If this season is about learning to hold both tears and joy at the same time, then perhaps this is growth.

If the crying ever becomes debilitating, or sleep shifts, or despair deepens, I can revisit wisdom without shame. Discernment is not rebellion. Medication isn’t unbelief. Seeking counsel isn’t weakness.

The joy of the Lord IS my strength. Not my numbing. Not my performance. Not my stability. Only Him.

And for now, I’ll keep turning my face toward the Son, even if it is wet with tears.