God's Pursuit of Me,  HomeLife

the crying game.

November 27, 2012 /

My mother-in-law was a crier.

A bona-fide crier.

The Real Deal.

Commercials.  (Back when you had no choice but to view them in between your television show which you could not DVR.)

Weddings.

Novels.

Birthdays.

Graduations.

The wind blowing.

And – although I’m ashamed to admit this even now – her crying would sometimes embarrass me.

I didn’t know how to handle it.

I was a non-crier.

Of the worst kind  —-  a prideful non-crier.

Her tears made me uncomfortable.

I didn’t have the right words to say.

I wasn’t sure if I should hug her or leave her alone.

I just didn’t understand.

I guess I hadn’t lived long enough back then.

My years hadn’t stacked up so high and tumbling-tower-like.

My heart was too young.  Too shallow.  Too all-about-itself.

My experiences hadn’t weighed me down, mellowed me out, brought about some sort of understanding.

I was weak in the grace department.

Mercy was not my strength.

I was ignorant.

And now my years have been piling up.

I can describe past events as happening decades ago – and I’m not exaggerating.

My marriage is older than the years we all spend completing our basic education.

Life has torn me down and built me up and freed me and enslaved me and tossed me in the winds.

And you know what I do now?

I cry.

When I read the chapters of a moving book like A Severe Mercy and I reach the scenes describing the wife’s death.  (The back cover tells you it’s going to happen.  I’m not a book spoiler – I promise.)

When I sit beside Bergen’s bed late at night and see that he’s finally growing in a front tooth and we have no idea what he’ll look like with front teeth as they’ve been knocked out his entire tiny life.

When a single mother at church dedicates her two young daughters and has to stand in front of hundreds of us all by herself.  So solitary.

When I talk about my mother.

When I stand on our porch for any length of time and allow myself six seconds to sit under the truth of God’s incredible mercy upon our family and his glorious redemption of our stories.

When I type e-mails to a friend who has recently lost a beloved one of her own.

When the wind blows.

It’s such a shame that I can’t somehow go back in time – that I missed my opportunity – to hug my mother-in-law when she cried.

That I stood there so awkwardly.

Time after crying time.

I’m sure she understood, just like I understand, that sometimes some people are just too early in life to understand the tears yet.

I doubt she judged me – in my ridiculous state of nearly-no-self-awareness.

I imagine she remembered living there once too.

Before tears stopped being embarrassing.

Tears.

Those unpredictable little beasts.

Surprising me at the silliest moments.

I used to work so hard to shove them down, push them aside, rub them away.

Is it a sign of maturity when you just let them flow?

I don’t really know.

Maybe it’s just a sign of straight-up old age.

I don’t really care.

I’ll wear it proudly.  (Or at least less shamefully.)

Like a badge.

I am a Crier.

It’s who I’ve become.

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