It is the season of tears.
Tears as I open my Bible.
When Abraham sends Ishmael away because of Sarah’s jealousy, and yet years later the brothers (Ishmael & Isaac) unite to bury their father. Tears because God makes straight lines out of brokenness, and that gives me hope.
Tears when Jesus fasts forty days in the wilderness. As a man, I know hunger and weakness. Tears in the beauty in how He turned temptation into proof of His strength. Tears because He did that for me.
Tears as my daughter struggles with friends and feelings. I watch her wrestle toward understanding. In the kitchen, she draws while music plays, and I do dishes just to keep her talking. I hide my tears so she will keep going.
Tears when my son runs until it hurts and then runs harder. The day he wins the meet, I see both what it cost and what it gave. I press back tears because all eyes are on us as we embrace at the finish line.
Tears listening to a friend describe leaving his daughter at college, driving home in silence. His story lingers. Tears rise in both of us as he speaks.
Tears on the drive home after working with a young man who lost his father. I see in his eyes the weight of loss, and of being lost. Tears because life can be unbearably hard.
Tears as my stepfather, 83, lets me complete forms he cannot finish alone. His thanks carries the sting of lost dignity. Tears because he has always given, and now must receive.
Tears as my Dad sits alone, unable to explain or change the unhappiness around him. His loneliness seeps into me. Tears because I remember his strength, and now all the fight is gone.
Tears when my children’s great-grandmother suffers a stroke. Their mother calls to tell me. Tears because Great-Grandma has always been steady ground in the middle of our differences. Tears because her life has been bright, and now the light begins to fade.
Tears when I shut out my mom after a breakup, unwilling to let her touch the ache I carry. Weeks later, when I finally told her everything, I wept. Not just tears, but the kind that make you a child again, cradled by your mother’s voice. More tears because my mom is a paradox: rare, fleeting, eternal. That is its own kind of sadness, and I have nowhere to place it.
Tears for love lost. For the cost of hope and the hollow ache of absence. Tears because even love that doesn’t last leaves its mark. More tears because she still lives inside of me. We’ve never been apart.
Tears of gratitude to finally know after all this time that I am capable of feeling fully.
Tears when my children return to their mother’s house, and Monday night leaves my home still humming with their absence. They were just here, and now they are gone. In the emptiness, the tears come. I have no one to love.
And tears now, as I write this. Can anyone hear me through these tears?
The crying has come in waves. Little by little, then all at once.
But tears are not only sorrow. They are the calm water by which I see my reflection. And this season, like all seasons, will pass.