A few weeks ago, I sat and listened to Pastor Keion Henderson preach a sermon that pierced my soul in a way few things ever have. He said something I haven’t been able to shake since:

“Crying is heaven’s language.”

As someone who has often been labeled “too emotional,” “too soft,” or “too much,” those words felt like divine permission to be exactly who I am. Pastor Henderson wasn’t asking us to cry from sadness—he was calling us to cry out to God. With the weight of our soul. With intention. With surrender.

He said tears signify transition—and that hit me deeply.

Because lately, my cry has been stuck. Like my body has exhausted every tear I had to give over the last two years, leaving me emotionally and spiritually jammed. I asked God, “Am I even good at transitions?” Because life has felt like one endless shift. I’m always recovering from something. Always adjusting. Always in the in-between.

Am I ever going to be steady?

Maybe, just maybe, God answered through this sermon:

“You cry because you’re shifting. And your tears are not weakness—they’re liquid worship.”

⸻

The Cry That Changes Everything

Pastor said something that’s stayed with me:

“If you don’t cry out to Him, God can’t stop where you are.”

That struck a nerve. Because trauma tightens your throat. It makes crying feel unsafe. When life has taught you to always be on guard, vulnerability feels like a luxury you can’t afford. But then Pastor said something that cracked me open:

“Tears are truth without grammar. They are the soul’s way of saying what the mouth cannot.”

And I thought of my darkest days—when my daughter Elizabeth was taken, and I didn’t know when or if I’d see her again. For nine long months, I was locked in legal limbo. Scrambling for money to secure a lawyer. Waiting for a court date. Praying. After that, I saw her only once in five months. A custody arrangement followed that split us—just two weeks a month. My soul ached.

I sobbed so hard some nights that I wondered if God could still hear me through that kind of brokenness.

But then, this past December, God did what the system never could:

He restored us.

He reconciled the hearts of the people involved—me and Gavin—and brought us back together in unity, just in time to start the new year as a family again. Not because the system did its job, but because God prevailed.

⸻

Trauma and the Terror of the Future

People say I’m scary. They say I’ve survived so much I should be fearless.

But God, I’m still scared.

Trauma will do that. It convinces you that even good things won’t last.

It makes you afraid of the future—even with God—because you remember how long it took to get here.

So I’m asking God to help me cry past the fear, and not get trapped in it.

To transition without shutting down.

To trust without trembling.

Because I know He’s saved me time and time again.

And now, I need Him on a next-level kind of move.

⸻

Closed Spirits and the People We Love

Pastor said:

“An open pocket and a closed spirit is called depression.”

He talked about how difficult it is to be in relationship with someone whose spirit is closed—because they can’t receive love, and they can’t give it. They’ll tolerate you, but they can’t celebrate you.

And I couldn’t help but think about Elizabeth’s father. But not with judgment—rather, with grace.

Because Pastor said:

“Everything that happens to a closed spirit happens on the outside of them.”

You don’t know what’s going on inside. They’ve sealed off the parts that feel.

I don’t think Elizabeth’s father has shut me out—I think he’s just shut off. In a way I may not fully understand.

And honestly? I’m not fully submitted to God either.

But I don’t want another Delilah moment.

⸻

Not Another Delilah

Delilah wasn’t submitted to God—and it cost Samson his strength. I don’t want to lose what God has given me by being entangled with anyone, or anything, that pulls me away from Him—even if that includes my own disobedience.

I crave reconciliation, not repetition.

Peace, not strife.

Unity—not just with Elizabeth’s father, but with myself.

With God. With truth.

And even when I don’t know where Elizabeth’s father stands spiritually, 

I can still decide where I kneel.

⸻

When Crying Becomes the Call

Pastor said in Hebrew, crying is:

“Sound soaked in pain.”

It’s not just weeping.

It’s a spiritual utterance. A groaning of the soul that calls heaven to attention.

Paul and Silas cried out in prison—and their sound shook the bars open.

Moses’ mother wept—and God made a way for her to nurse the very child she thought she’d lost.

And I believe my cry—my soul’s aching sound—was the very thing God responded to when He restored what had been torn apart.

The cry then is what allows me to stand now.

Not in bitterness, but in belief.

Not in pain, but in purpose.

God moves by sound—not by strength. And sometimes, it’s not our words, but our weeping that invites Heaven in.

When I listened to Pastor Keion Henderson’s sermon on May 5, 2025, something in me awakened. He declared that three months from the day you hear this message, God will meet you at your cry.

And I couldn’t shake the weight of that promise—or the divine precision of the timeline it pointed to:

• August 3, 2011 – I was hit by a car. People say God spared me, but I believe He woke me up.

• August 3, 2024 – I was baptized. Renewed. Reclaimed.

• August 5, 2025 – The day Pastor proclaimed our tears would meet God’s grace.

Tell me that’s a coincidence.

I won’t believe you.

God doesn’t operate in coincidence—He operates in covenant.

This is divine alignment. His signature written across my life in dates, in cries, in the moments I didn’t understand at the time.

God didn’t just preserve me—He prepared me.

And I believe He’s still responding to the sound of my cry.

⸻

Heaven Is Listening

I’ve spent years smiling through pain.

Smiling for others. Smiling past trauma. Smiling in silence.

But maybe what we need most isn’t another fake smile —

It’s to sit and cry to God. 

I no longer believe my tears are a liability.

They are my way into God’s remembrance.

So God, hear my cry.

Not just the words—but the weight.

Don’t forget the prayers my voice couldn’t carry.

Help me not just survive this transition—help me shift.

Because the system didn’t restore me.

You did.

You moved on the sound of my soul.

So I will cry—loudly, messily, faithfully.

Because this isn’t the end.

It’s the beginning.