My body has forgotten how to cry.
I mean, I regularly tear up, I’m not a monster. But to cry, actually let the tears slip down my cheeks, sob, any actual catharsis, no.
I cried at the beginning of last summer. It was the last day my family was worshipping at the church where we had attended for 11 years, where I had been the youth pastor, where my girls were born, with the people who rebuilt my house after the fire . It was also the last Sunday some of our best friends would be there. They were moving to Iowa. I cried from the moment worship began and all through the carry-in meal. I cried as I told them, “Thank you for allowing me to help raise your children and for helping me to raise mine.” That was the last time.
Before that, I cried twice in the fall of 2018: both pretty intense circumstances.
But, generally, the tears don’t come. They ball into a painful pressure at the top of my sternum. (Yes, I am aware that’s the heart chakra.)
The world feels like it’s falling down.
I have needed to cry for days.
I was in my kitchen flipping pancakes when I got the news that the Relief Sale was cancelled. Tears hung on my eyelids and my chest hurt, but nothing came.
My kids are so disappointed to miss the rest of this school year. “Mama, what about Battle of the Books?” E asked in true pain, and my heart broke for her.
My church has closed its doors, and I don’t know when we might reopen them.
Am I going to have to bury some of my people? Or other people’s people? How many? For how long?
Right now, the deaths are still numbers. Little red arrows and percentage signs. But soon enough they won’t be. None of us is going to escape without grief.
Easter.
I am in my first year as a lead/solo/grown-up pastor, and I was planning my first Easter.
Jesus’ gonna rise from the dead with or without me, but I wanted to be there to bear witness.
In “Speaking Tree” Joy Harjo writes, “What shall I do with all this heartache?”
Indeed, what can I do with all this heartache when my body has forgotten how to cry?
I mean, I regularly tear up, I’m not a monster. But to cry, actually let the tears slip down my cheeks, sob, any actual catharsis, no.
I cried at the beginning of last summer. It was the last day my family was worshipping at the church where we had attended for 11 years, where I had been the youth pastor, where my girls were born, with the people who rebuilt my house after the fire . It was also the last Sunday some of our best friends would be there. They were moving to Iowa. I cried from the moment worship began and all through the carry-in meal. I cried as I told them, “Thank you for allowing me to help raise your children and for helping me to raise mine.” That was the last time.
Before that, I cried twice in the fall of 2018: both pretty intense circumstances.
But, generally, the tears don’t come. They ball into a painful pressure at the top of my sternum. (Yes, I am aware that’s the heart chakra.)
The world feels like it’s falling down.
I have needed to cry for days.
I was in my kitchen flipping pancakes when I got the news that the Relief Sale was cancelled. Tears hung on my eyelids and my chest hurt, but nothing came.
My kids are so disappointed to miss the rest of this school year. “Mama, what about Battle of the Books?” E asked in true pain, and my heart broke for her.
My church has closed its doors, and I don’t know when we might reopen them.
Am I going to have to bury some of my people? Or other people’s people? How many? For how long?
Right now, the deaths are still numbers. Little red arrows and percentage signs. But soon enough they won’t be. None of us is going to escape without grief.
Easter.
I am in my first year as a lead/solo/grown-up pastor, and I was planning my first Easter.
Jesus’ gonna rise from the dead with or without me, but I wanted to be there to bear witness.
In “Speaking Tree” Joy Harjo writes, “What shall I do with all this heartache?”
Indeed, what can I do with all this heartache when my body has forgotten how to cry?
Oh, Asia. Love to you. "Jesus' gonna rise from the dead with or without me, but I wanted to be there to bear witness." Yup. Me too. Praying he rises right there in your kitchen, surprises you, spatula in hand with resurrection. Or actual flow down your face tears. Or maybe both.
ReplyDeleteAny and all of that sounds great.
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