A Time for Tears

It’s weird how little crying I’ve done since all this happened.

I was born super-sensitive and high-strung, and have cried easily and frequently throughout my life. There was a time a few years ago when I simply couldn’t stop crying. One time I cried so hysterically that my kids actually discussed calling 911.

But crying won’t kill you.

Several years ago, my sister, with strange foreshadowing, gave Katherine a picture with a scripture verse on it. It was of a beautiful woman with long blonde hair, weeping. The verse was:

“You keep track of all my sorrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.*
You have recorded each one in your book. (Psalm 56:8 NLT)

(*Other translations say “wineskins.")

I must have contributed many magnums to heaven’s wine cellar by now.

I’ve discovered that there are times, though, when you just can’t cry. I have shed strangely few tears since April. (For me, anyway.) Prior to that time, much lesser things have completely done me in. Maybe this is just too big. Much, much, much too big. Maybe I’ve been in a benign type of denial.

I think I realize, subconsciously, that if I let myself really get started, I won’t be able to stop.

When I was home for the holidays, I’d run into someone I hadn’t seen since before April 21. That person, seeing me for the first time, might try to say something comforting, but would start crying before they could get it out. Now, normally, I always cry when other people cry. The faucet immediately turns on full blast. It’s like when someone else is throwing up, I start gagging. (Actually, if I even smell it, I start gagging.) But in these holiday encounters, even though the person was crying on my behalf, I didn’t shed a tear. Not a drop. I could almost feel something inside of my chest turning to steel against the hug.

I wonder if there’s been some kind of internal mechanism operating in survival mode. Maybe there’s a mental gate that slams down when I get too close to the edge of the cliff.

Oh well...enough navel-gazing for now.

***************

Last Sunday, everyone came to the apartment in LA for lunch after church. This has become a weekly tradition. I usually hate to cook, but for some reason I really pull out all the stops for Sunday lunch. It’s the closest thing we have to being home out here. Everyone stays all day, and then sometimes it turns into supper. Jay says it’s my “Nenie” thing. My grandmother Nenie was a fantastic southern cook; I am barely a decent mushroom-soup-can cook...but it’s more about the spirit of the thing. Last week we had about 10 people and 3 babies crammed into this miniscule place. In addition to the immediate family, we had Jay’s cousin Johnny, whom I’ve adopted, and two couples who are among Katherine and Jay’s very closest friends. The two mothers, Anna and Abby, were pregnant when Katherine’s AVM rupture occurred, so those babies incubated at UCLA. They were there practically every day of their inter-uterine lives, at least until we moved to Casa Colina. Anna and her husband Andy took care of James for us for a couple of months.

Anyway, it was a happy, sweet afternoon with very well-loved ones. Katherine was parked in her corner of the shabby shabby-chic couch I got off Craig’s List, watching as we ate baked salmon and goat cheese omelettes and drank peach tea and mimosas. We’ve almost gotten over our guilt about indulging ourselves in front of her by now. Just a quick twinge now and then. She watched as we passed around the little babies and took cute pictures...as we rescued James from perilous perches and picked him up from falls...as the mothers discreetly retired to the tiny bedroom to nurse.

That night, Katherine and I were alone with James in the apartment for a while. As I desultorily cleaned, she read on the couch. When I asked her what she was reading, she held up “The Purpose-Driven Life.” “Katherine, haven’t you read that before?” I asked. She nodded yes. “Why are you reading it again?” A few seconds went by. Then big crocodile tears started streaming down her cheeks. “Because I need a purpose.” I didn’t say anything, I just sat down and held her. “How many mothers can’t go to their baby when he cries? That’s what mothers DO.” I nodded on her shoulder. I knew she was deeply touched by the mother-baby interactions she had just witnessed with her friends. “Those babies are close to the age James was when this happened to you. Is that sad for you?” Fresh tears streamed down, and Katherine’s tiny shoulders shook with pain. “I don't know how much longer I can take this. How many mothers can’t pick their baby up when he’s hurt? Do you know how that FEELS?”

Hmmmm.

Suddenly, I felt that steel bar start turning into rubber.

My baby and I just sat on that sofa and wept.


I have a feeling the dam’s about to break.

It’s time.

***************

“...a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance..." (Ecclesiastes 3:4)


“This is what the LORD, the God of your father David, says: I have heard your prayer and seen your tears; I will heal you.” (II Kings 20:5)

“Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy.” (Psalm 126:5)

“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." (Revelation 21:4)