Trying to Cry

I’m a little bit tear deficient.  Actually, I remember the day I stopped crying.

On a hot summer day I was playing in our yard when I crossed paths with a yellow jacket.  (Perhaps you have personal yellow jacket knowledge.)  That day a little guy, probably four years old, experienced his inaugural sting.

My father was nearby (I call him Pop) and came to my rescue.  He took me in the house, sat me on the kitchen counter and administered some sophisticated emergency medical treatment.  He took a pinch of chewing tobacco out of his mouth and applied it to the injury.   He told me to hold the tobacco poultice in place and it would draw out the poison.  A fascinating piece of information!

I remember something else about that kitchen counter conversation.  After “doctoring” on me Pop said, “Now stop crying.  Big men don’t cry.”  And I did.  I stopped crying and, to be honest, I’m having trouble starting back.

As I write this I’m sitting in a hospital room with my father.  He looks up at me with childlike confusion as I try to explain why he can’t take the blood oxygen thingy (the technical term) off his finger.  I just paused writing long enough to explain to him that Medlen is not pitching now because the Braves are batting.  The man who educated me about stuff like bee stings and baseball gets confused easily these days.

A few minutes ago I lifted him out of the bed and helped him stand while he used the urinal.  As I held him upright I couldn’t help but notice that the man who was once an imposing six feet, one inch is now several inches shorter than me.

And still the tears won’t come.

Pop fell the other day.  I was mowing my parent’s lawn when my mother rushed out to get me.  When I walked in he was sitting in the floor.  Mom told me he wanted to watch me out the window but his legs were just too weak.  I lifted his way-too-light frame into his chair. 

Back on the mower, I tried to cry.

It was the perfect opportunity.  I could have had a good cry without fear of intrusion.  Yet, despite a willing, hurting heart, my eyes were dry.  Puzzling!

What’s even more puzzling is that the tears have started sneaking up on me.  When I would normally be in complete control, a paragon of composure, the tears intrude.  It happened a couple weeks ago when I was leading our congregation in prayer for a little guy, six years old, fighting for his life in an ICU.  I choked up!  That wasn’t supposed to happen!  Why did that happen?

So maybe I’m just messed up.  My tear ducts don’t know when to work.  I want them to get this right… because right now I could use a good cry.