October 2001. Eric Crouch is destroying the Missouri Tigers on TV, including a 95 yard touchdown run that actually started in the opposite end zone. But I'm not watching anymore. I'm on the deck of my brother's apartment, crying my friggin' heart out while my friend Cindy is holding me and my best friend and soon to be ex-brother-in-law is sitting on my other side. Instead of watching the destruction of the Tigers, I'm watching the destruction of my first marriage.
This is not about that destruction, though - it's about the kind of weeping I did that day. I don't know that I've ever as an adult experienced the depth of grief that I experienced then. I'm talking deep, wracking, soul-wrenching weeping that held me in its grip until it was done with me. I was powerless under the strength of such sorrow, and looking back it frightens me how out of control I was in that moment. I don't know what my friends thought, but I know that it couldn't have been easy to be there in that moment. As always, our friends show us the strength of their love by their willingness to endure discomfort in order to share grief with us.
I'm not crying like that today. Indeed, the only thing that made me remember that moment was a new post at reallivepreacher.com - you should go read it (look for the post about Mr. Rogers). But I'm thinking about it and I'm grateful that God allows us to grieve, because once that cleansing, purifying bout of weeping was done, I was emptied of my own power to control my circumstances and placed into the hands of a loving God who carried me through the next year. Did I always know it? No - but looking back I can see that even when I stumbled I was never out of reach of the One who stayed with me through the storms of grief.
Crying is a gift of God. I started to say that I hope I never weep like that again, but I can't say that, because to deny that moment would also be denying the healing and growth that came after. Genuine, authentic love is vulnerable to crying, to weeping, to sorrow, and if I leave behind the bitter I will also leave behind the sweet. Instead I pray that I will never, ever lose the capacity to mourn - for if I do I will also lose the capacity to be a child of God.
Pax,
Scott
Amen. I know precisely what you mean - I had a similar experience at a bachelor party last night.
ReplyDeleteMy problem is I can't allow myself to cry in front of other people. So the upshot, then, is when you need someone to comfort you, you're all alone. Sucks.
read this first over at rlp and wanted to find your blog. You shared your vulnerability here in a beautiful way and suddenly I realised that letting go in that horribly way is part of grief and its good and wholesome
ReplyDeletethank you