I snatched my in-case-of-emergency pack of cigarettes from their hiding place and headed to the backyard.
I’m not a smoker. (Read that again, Mom: I am not a smoker.) But I will occasionally partake every few months, always for good reason. That day, I had a reason.
(I justify it by reminding myself how I used to smoke cigars once a week in college. Unfiltered, much more dangerous and much more often. At least I don’t do THAT anymore… Right?… Hello?…)
I plopped down on our outside couch and swiped angrily at the tears still dripping from my cheeks. I brought the cigarette to my lips, struck the match and inhaled deeply.
I know it’s stupid, dangerous and all that. Every pull of nicotine and every swallow of alcohol is playing Russian Roulette with addiction.
But it was too early to drink and my Klonapin just wouldn’t cut it this time. Pain like this calls for something mildly self-destructive as a coping mechanism. (Some of you know EXACTLY what I mean by that. And if you don’t, well, you might be too emotionally healthy for us to be friends.)
Some of the pain was my own: an ongoing unresolvable problem, an IV of anxiety that dripped steadily into my veins. Some was the preemptive grief that came from a terminal diagnosis of a loved one. Most of it was vicarious grief for a friend who was walking through her second horrific loss of a child, the most unspeakable pain there is. While I have never personally experienced that level of pain, the depth of it was not lost on me.
At times like that we’re all left staring into the eyes of the most heartless beast that roams our world and takes up residence in our hearts. His name is Why.
I flicked the growing ashes of my cigarette and watched them hit the ground and scatter into nothingness. The foul vapor leaving my mouth wafted away into the morning breeze.
The Bible says so we all are. Ashes. Dust. A mist. Temporary, fragile and fleeting.
I wish Yoda were real. I could really use him following me around, teaching me stuff and telling me what to do. (He definitely would have shamed me for that cigarette.)
I remember in Empire Strikes Back while he is training Luke to be a Jedi, Luke starts to ask why he can’t do something and Yoda cuts him off.
I can still hear Frank Oz’s voice barking, “No, no! There is no why! (Frustrated sigh.) Nothing more will I teach you today.”
Tragedies and loss awaken the Why Monster in all of us. We want answers. We feel entitled to them. We demand them of each other. We demand them of God.
But the truth is, there is no why. No why that will make anything better, that is. The answers we get from each other cannot undo the damage that’s been done. And God has never felt compelled to answer the whys of men.
Job tried it and got a stern lecture from his Creator on His power, His sovereignty, His omniscience, His majesty.
The Israelites tried it and got a fierce reminder from their God of His miraculous and ongoing provision for them.
I’ve tried it myself and have been met with loving silence. His thoughts are not my thoughts and His ways are not my ways.
But I’m convinced that even if He did answer, it wouldn’t satisfy us and it wouldn’t lessen the pain.
Even so, the Why Monster continues to roar, ravenous for a reason he will never get. Eventually, his voice will become tired, he will grow weary and lie down. But the growl will always rumble in his throat. Why? Why?
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Have I mentioned lately how much I hate crying?
I hate crying.
Not as much as I used to. I used to be embarrassed by my tears and would leave the room if emotion started to get away from me.
Now I grind it out, owning my feelings, pushing through the pain to vulnerability, no longer ashamed of being human.
But here’s the thing: I think my tears contain battery acid or something.
I’m serious. My tears hurt. So I hurt on the inside, which triggers tears that sting and burn on the outside. When I cry, I can barely open my eyes for the next 24 hours because they’re so swollen. If I don’t wipe the tears away before they reach my mouth, they burn my lips, causing them to chap and peel for days. It’s ridiculous.
Several years ago a photographer published a project called Topography of Tears. She photographed dried tears with a microscopic lens to show the different chemical makeup of tears from different emotions. The pictures are fascinating.
(And I swear, if she looked at the chemical makeup of MY tears, well, I might get to join the X-Men. Maybe I should look into weaponizing my tears… Hmmm….)
Obviously tears are very important to our Creator. Jesus was never uncomfortable around tears, His own or those of others. He always saw them as precious, valuable, necessary.
I’m always particularly intrigued by the heart of Jesus shown in the story of Lazarus. I would read John 11:35 and just turn it over and over in my head.
Lord, You knew He was going to die. And You knew You were going to bring him back to life and it would all be okay in a matter of moments. Why did You stop and cry?
The only Man who ever walked on this earth who had TOTAL control over His emotions chose to pause just before a miracle and weep for His friend. As brief as He knew that moment would be, it was worthy of His tears.
And not only did He allow Himself to feel deeply and express Himself freely, but He praised it in others. Jesus’ response to the ‘sinful woman’ in Luke 7 leaves little room for an aloof or blasé believer.
Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for My feet, but she wet My feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give Me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing My feet. You did not put oil on My head, but she has poured perfume on My feet. Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—for she loved much. But he who has been forgiven little loves little. (44-46)
I used to picture a fairly unemotional Jesus, continuing dinner and conversation with His friends, occasionally patting the woman patronizingly on the head and looking down on her with supreme satisfaction. But now, well, I know Him better than that.
I now see Jesus reclining on the floor, gazing at her in adoration and compassion, soaking in the purest of all worship, and not missing a single tear falling from her puffy, red eyes.
Was He embarrassed by her lack of emotional control? Was He judging her tearful worship as ‘making a scene’? Not even close. She was not only anointing Him with oil, but also with her tears. And those tears, genuine tears, from Jesus’ perspective, were much more valuable.
So often we try to stop tears, our own and those of others. Tears make us uncomfortable. The person crying is vulnerable and laid bare and those around them feel the need to avert their eyes or make it stop.
But I submit to you that often life calls for tears. And it’s not my job to get people to stop crying. If it hurts that much, let them cry. Who am I to say whether or not a situation is worthy of their tears?
I can’t protect my loved ones’ hearts from pain, but I can protect their right to hurt. And I do. Ferociously.
God knows the depths of the heart of every man, and is not limited in guessing by the guarded and contrived outward expressions of our emotions. My King is not one more person on the list of people I have to be brave for. He’s the close friend and/or trusted parent who is always, always safe.
So any feeling I try to hold back from Him is a bluff, and we both know it. I’m finally starting to see those times as opportunities to let God meet me in those places and draw me near to Himself, instead of avoiding Him in embarrassment and vulnerability.
When did I get so ashamed and afraid of my feelings? When did I decide that God only wants my good moods and victorious moments? When did I commit to a life of trying to impress Him?
Maybe He created tears because He knew there would be people like me who would try to hide how they were feeling. Maybe these outward expressions were designed to draw His children together to share the highs and lows of life.
The world is full of people trying to be brave. God’s people should be free to be real, no matter what that looks like. And in moments of emotion, we should fearlessly point others to Him as our hope.
Maybe our tears are a platform to talk about Jesus.
Yesterday, I came across a video on Facebook that made me laugh so hard, I cried.
I love doing that.
I think it scares my family a little, mainly because I don’t laugh near as much as I should. So when I really lose it like that, they’re not quite sure what to do.
But after this week of many tears for many reasons, I was so thankful for the cleansing tears of joy.
And you know what? Those tears don’t burn or sting.
And you know what else? That doesn’t surprise me at all.
