"Something Short of Sorrow"
The hurt that comes while heartache heals
is something short of sorrow,
something short of how it feels
holds any semblance of today.
It falls short of the grief we know
when loved-ones pass away
and patted earth is covered by snow,
short of the loss that’s shared
when hope or love’s let go
and all around us are prepared
to reap the joy we’re told tears sow.
Heartache settles deep inside
where no one sees or knows
save one who peers… eyes wide
in yours… until it goes.
© Tom Kapanka, April 28, 2012
"They that sow in tears shall reap in joy." Psalm 126:5 (KJV)
I wrote the above lines during a very difficult year in my life when it felt like reality as I knew was about to change forever. The heaviness was not like what I'd gone through when my father died nor again when my mother passed, but heartache is something like grief... something short of sorrow.
When I first met Enoch, it was by email. We were total strangers, and frankly, I was not sure whether or not I should take his request seriously. It was a short note, written in a readable Chinese accent, that began with, "Hello, My name is Enoch and I would like to come to Calvary."
It is highly unusual to hear directly from a high school student in China. Typically, an agency acts on behalf of the student and handles all of the details for the school. But there was one sentence in the email that I knew made this a special case. He mentioned a mutual Chinese friend whose name I do not include here. I immediately shared the email with that trusted person, and he told me the extraordinary circumstances behind this young man's earnest plea.
There were reasons for the secrecy in the beginning and for the continued caution I use in these chapters. Because of those many obstacles, we knew it was a long shot--a very long shot--that Enoch's prayer to come to Calvary would be answered as he hoped, but together he and our office staff (who put together I-20 forms and the letters) tried and failed and tried and failed and tried again. Months passed. The semester he hoped to be here but was instead with Ms. Glum passed. All the while this young man remained optimistic and hopeful. "God is in charge of Tomorrow," he often told me when news was not so good and our final effort seemed doomed to fail. I was inspired by his "never give up" spirit--so much so that when at long last I read Enoch's unexpected good news the day before New Year's Eve of 2018, I "heard" only the joy and excitement in the voice behind his written words.
And when we picked him up at the airport. He was so brave, so courteous, so grateful to be with us. And after that first awkward meal where he literally fell asleep for a moment, head drooping over, while he ate. So tired from all he'd been through. And then in the car driving the half hour to our home, he looked out the back window at snow falling, "It is so beautiful," he sighed, "It is a miracle that I am here. When will be go to Cal-va-ry?" he sounded out the word, which seemed to give it all the reverence it deserves. So much sacrifice behind that word and behind Enoch's being with us, that my voice cracked when I said, "We'll go as soon as you're rested up." He was sound asleep when we pulled into our garage.
In all the effort and excitement, it did not yet occur to me that the enthusiasm we had shared had deferred the reality of just how irreversible this journey would be--at least through all his schooling here. He had worked so hard to make the impossible happen that it would be several days before he learned that hope fulfilled would bring a heartache not yet imagined.
Days later, on the first day of school for Enoch, all the high school met in the chapel for a brief time of introduction. It was then I presented him with a small pewter desk medallion of an Eagle (the Calvary mascot) and these words about COURAGE from I Corinthians 16:13. As we walked from the chapel, he leaned over and whispered to me, "I think I am going to like this school."
The medallion is on his study desk in his bedroom, and day by day, he feels less homesick and more plugged into this new reality. It was about a week after his arrival that he told me of his heartache and when he saw sympathy in my eyes (as the poem says)
"I'm sorry it is so hard,"I sighed.
He nodded with confidence and simply replied,
"The blessing outweighs."
[On to Chapter 5]
When I first met Enoch, it was by email. We were total strangers, and frankly, I was not sure whether or not I should take his request seriously. It was a short note, written in a readable Chinese accent, that began with, "Hello, My name is Enoch and I would like to come to Calvary."
It is highly unusual to hear directly from a high school student in China. Typically, an agency acts on behalf of the student and handles all of the details for the school. But there was one sentence in the email that I knew made this a special case. He mentioned a mutual Chinese friend whose name I do not include here. I immediately shared the email with that trusted person, and he told me the extraordinary circumstances behind this young man's earnest plea.
There were reasons for the secrecy in the beginning and for the continued caution I use in these chapters. Because of those many obstacles, we knew it was a long shot--a very long shot--that Enoch's prayer to come to Calvary would be answered as he hoped, but together he and our office staff (who put together I-20 forms and the letters) tried and failed and tried and failed and tried again. Months passed. The semester he hoped to be here but was instead with Ms. Glum passed. All the while this young man remained optimistic and hopeful. "God is in charge of Tomorrow," he often told me when news was not so good and our final effort seemed doomed to fail. I was inspired by his "never give up" spirit--so much so that when at long last I read Enoch's unexpected good news the day before New Year's Eve of 2018, I "heard" only the joy and excitement in the voice behind his written words.
And when we picked him up at the airport. He was so brave, so courteous, so grateful to be with us. And after that first awkward meal where he literally fell asleep for a moment, head drooping over, while he ate. So tired from all he'd been through. And then in the car driving the half hour to our home, he looked out the back window at snow falling, "It is so beautiful," he sighed, "It is a miracle that I am here. When will be go to Cal-va-ry?" he sounded out the word, which seemed to give it all the reverence it deserves. So much sacrifice behind that word and behind Enoch's being with us, that my voice cracked when I said, "We'll go as soon as you're rested up." He was sound asleep when we pulled into our garage.
In all the effort and excitement, it did not yet occur to me that the enthusiasm we had shared had deferred the reality of just how irreversible this journey would be--at least through all his schooling here. He had worked so hard to make the impossible happen that it would be several days before he learned that hope fulfilled would bring a heartache not yet imagined.
The medallion is on his study desk in his bedroom, and day by day, he feels less homesick and more plugged into this new reality. It was about a week after his arrival that he told me of his heartache and when he saw sympathy in my eyes (as the poem says)
"I'm sorry it is so hard,"I sighed.
He nodded with confidence and simply replied,
"The blessing outweighs."
[On to Chapter 5]
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