Tears

I would think most of you would probably not be surprised if I said I don't cry very often. Well, OK I cry more than my husband but not on a frequent basis. When a movie or book starts to pull those kind of strings I step back remind myself it is fiction and get a grip. If I am feeling it at church I fight as hard as I can to keep those tears in their rightful place, on the inside of my head. I am way too tough to cry over an injury. Stressful day? I tend to just act angry instead of cry.

I do believe elevated hormone levels are just a world to themselves and do horrible things to me. I do admit to getting irrational and weepy when hormones are out of wack.

But back to normal Vanessa, I am just not a big crier. I don't like it.

I went to a funeral yesterday. I have been to many a funeral in my lifetime. My father used to be the bishop at our church and took us along to funerals and viewings for people I really didn't know all the time.

I did, however know this particular person. As I sat there fighting my tears, I was pondering in my heart what makes death so sad? I KNOW with all my heart what happens after. It isn't that big of a deal. This man was prepared. He and his family had been sealed together for time and all eternity.

Why do I not cry? Why do I feel the need to bury tears? Why do I feel uncomfortable with others seeing me emotional? What good does it do to suppress them?  What do I accomplish in hiding my real emotions? Does it help someone else if I don't cry? Do I make someone feel better by appearing emotionally unattached?- Even if deep down I am ripped apart? Why do I feel stupid for crying sometimes?Why am I concerned at all about the impression others get when I cry?

When I thought about the man who had moved on I wasn't really that sad, not for him. Tears were for-



The nephew singing " I am a child of God" and starting to cry.
My dear friend, the man's son, who had just came back from Afghanistan now burying his father 2 weeks later.
Listening to the letter of the missionary son who chose to remain on the mission he had started 3 weeks ago instead of return for the funeral.The missionary who would return to a fatherless home in 2 years.
The daughter holding her 3 week old infant.
The 2 children still young enough to be at home and need a father.
The woman who will now have to go on without his physical presence at her side.

So I let go. I cried. I cried that I wouldn't see him again or talk to him. There were tears for his family now having to fight through this world without his stability to watch. There were tears for death in general. But most of my tears for memories. Memories and missed opportunities, for holes that were left behind, for grieving survivors. Aunt Brenda, of Hiram, and Ben, my Grandpa, my father-in-law who I never got to build a relationship with. For the friend who was widowed at 4 months pregnant. My little sister Natalie. My own father who never got to meet his grandchildren in this world. I cried. I don't care if I made anyone uncomfortable. I needed to cry and I did. And I intend to do so more often.

Funerals are for the loved ones. For those left to pick up the pieces.I am learning that now, maybe my father was wise in taking us along. He helped me understand death wasn't a big deal for the dead, now we have to help the living.