Day 87: the Fellowship of Tears

Rejoice with those who rejoice; weep with those who weep. Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud; instead, associate with the humble. Romans 12:15–16

Soon after my parents divorced, Dad Harper remarried and moved out of the city to forty-two acres of flat, cactus-dotted pastureland in Central Florida to begin his dream of becoming a cattleman-rancher. Before the moving boxes were all unpacked, Dad took me to the feed store to pick out my very first saddle—a beautiful, hand-tooled leather model with fancy silver concha decorations. I was so proud of that saddle and even more proud when the storeowner winked at Dad and asked, “Is this your new ranch-hand, Everett?” And Dad said, “Yep, she sure is!” Then, when he put his big hand on my little girl shoulder as we were walking out to the truck and said he was really going to need my help with our new cattle operation, I stretched at least an inch or two taller!

I’m sure I was more nuisance than asset those first few years of working cows with Dad. I wasn’t big enough to hold them still for vaccinations and wasn’t yet strong enough to circle a rope over my shoulder and lasso a calf while riding my beloved horse Gypsy, even though I practiced roping fence-posts by the barn every single weekend I got to be with Dad! Despite my ineptitude, I fell madly in love with taking care of our farm animals which included all manner of horses, cows, pigs, hens, dogs, and even a mean old rooster who angrily chased my stepbrother and me on a regular basis!

So one summer, when one of our mama cows died before weaning her calf and Dad asked me to nurse her calf with a bottle until it got strong enough to fend for itself, I was thrilled. I named the solid black, orphaned calf “Inky” and spent every waking moment tending to him. It wasn’t long before that baby Hereford bonded to me, and pretty soon he no longer stayed in the pasture with the rest of the herd, but instead followed me around like an oversized puppy. He even started sleeping outside the house, curled up in the wobbly circle of our other snoring dogs, who completely accepted Inky despite the fact that he mooed instead of barked.

When my sweet baby bull was about a year old, Dad told me it was time to assimilate him back into the pasture with the rest of the cows. I cried, insisting that he didn’t know how to be a cow anymore because he’d become part of our family. But when Dad gently encouraged me that we had to do what was best for Inky, I relented, knowing deep in my heart that he needed to be with his real family. (Although I still made several visits to the fence every day I was at Dad’s to rub his growing black head and feed him treats.)

Not too long after we transitioned him from pet back to farm animal, a pack of rabid dogs attacked and killed several newborn calves and young cows at our neighbor’s ranch and several of ours, including Inky. Dad teared up when he told me, explaining sorrowfully that even though Inky was a yearling and big enough to defend himself, he probably didn’t because he thought of dogs as friends not as potentially dangerous.

I was crushed. After seeing his remains when my less-than-tender stepmother drove me down to the pasture while Dad was on the tractor trying to bury the corpses, I was inconsolable. I sobbed and sobbed, devastated by the realization that had I not turned Inky into a pet, he never would’ve been savagely attacked and killed. I couldn’t help imagining him trotting over to that pack of wild dogs with his bright eyes and friendly disposition, assuming they wanted to play with him like our other dogs always did.

When Dad came up from the barn to clean up, my stepmother announced in an irritated huff that she was leaving to go shopping in town because she was sick of hearing me cry and carry on over a stupid cow. That mini tragedy took place when I was eleven years old and it’s the first time (although certainly not the last) it occurred to me that grief is not an inclusive kind of emotion. That deep ache tends to be an isolating event. That despair tends to put uncomfortable distance between the heartbroken and observers. Especially if the observers haven’t healthily processed their own grief and loss.

Thankfully, God doesn’t leave us alone in our pain, or consider us stupid for feeling it in the depths of our soul. He doesn’t stand at a distance whether we are in joy or grief. He weeps with us when our cheeks are soaked with tears, and He rejoices when we are brimming with joy. He bears it all right there beside us.

• Would you describe the most painful season of your life as a lonely time? Why or why not?
• Why do you tend to think God wants distance from you when you are grieving?
• What current pain are you facing right now, and how can you invite God into it?