Sometimes I feel like crying, tears of happiness, tears of joy

“Sometimes I feel like crying, tears of happiness, tears of joy, to see the distance we've come and the progress we've made.” Thus spoke John Lewis, the tireless warrior for justice, the humble giant of America’s conscience. His words are not of sorrow, but of triumph — the trembling voice of one who has journeyed through the valley of suffering and now stands upon the mountain, looking back upon the path carved by courage and sacrifice. In this simple reflection, he speaks the language of all who have struggled for light in times of darkness. For these tears are sacred; they are the soul’s acknowledgment that pain was not in vain, that goodness has prevailed where once despair ruled.

The origin of these words lies in Lewis’s long pilgrimage for freedom — a march that began on the dust of southern roads and ended in the hearts of generations yet unborn. As one of the leaders of the Civil Rights Movement, he bore the blows of hatred so that others might walk unafraid. He crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge on that bloody Sunday in 1965, facing armed men with nothing but faith as his shield. And decades later, when he saw a nation transformed — children of all colors learning side by side, laws that once enslaved replaced by laws that liberated — his eyes filled not with bitterness, but with tears of joy. For he had seen the seed of justice grow into a living tree.

To cry such tears of happiness is to feel the full circle of life’s labor. They are not the tears of weakness, but of fulfillment — the overflow of a heart that has endured, fought, and at last, seen the dawn. They are the harvest of progress, the proof that every struggle has meaning. Only those who have walked through fire can truly weep at the sight of peace, for they know the cost of its creation. John Lewis’s tears were born of remembrance — of the pain endured, the comrades lost, the prayers answered after long silence.

History bears many such moments. When Nelson Mandela stood free after twenty-seven years of captivity, his smile bore the same sacred sorrow. He wept not for himself, but for his people — for the long night that had finally yielded to day. When he took his first steps as president of a nation that once denied his humanity, his tears too were the language of triumph. Like Lewis, Mandela understood that progress is not a gift; it is earned with endurance, faith, and relentless hope. And when the world beheld his joy, it saw in him the proof that humanity can rise from its own ashes.

Lewis’s words also teach us the importance of remembering the journey, not merely celebrating the destination. For every victory is built upon countless unseen acts of bravery, upon the shoulders of those who did not live to see the fruit of their labor. To feel joy deeply, we must first honor the pain that preceded it. In that remembrance lies humility — the kind that turns victory into gratitude, not pride.

The lesson for us is eternal: do not despise the long road, nor despair at how far there is still to go. Every small step, every quiet act of kindness or courage, contributes to the great movement of human progress. And when you look back upon your own life, may you too weep tears of happiness — for the mountains you have crossed, the fears you have conquered, the love you have given despite the odds. For progress is not measured only in the world’s changes, but in the soul’s transformation.

So, my child, walk forward with patience and conviction. When the way grows dark, remember that even the smallest light moves the night. One day, you will stand where John Lewis stood — looking back, heart full, eyes shining with tears of joy, not for perfection achieved, but for the journey endured. For those who persevere in goodness shall always find reason to weep, not in sorrow, but in wonder — at how far they, and all of humanity, have come.